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LIBRARY    OF    THK 


University  of  California, 


CIKC  UI.  A  TING     RKA  A'C  //.  -i— 

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TUBBE  TIISY  WEBE,  TIIESIC  BLADES  OF  OBABS. 


IPage  16.] 


BLADE-O'-GRASS 


>      W  THE    ^ 

By  B.  L.  FARJEON, 

AUTHOR    OF    "JOSHXJA    MARVEL,"    &o. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


LIBRARY    OF    'I'll 


University  of  California. 


i- 1  RC  I'J.A  riXG     BRAXCH. 


Return  in  tsr^  weels*';  or  a  week  before  the  end  of  the  term. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 

1874. 


By  B.  L.  FARJEON. 


BREAD- AND-CHEESE  AND  KISSES,     A  Christmas 
Story.     Illustrated.     8vo  Paper,  35  cents. 

LONDON'S  HEART.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  $1  00. 

GRIF:  a  Story  of  Australian  Life.     8vo,  Paper,  40  cents. 

yOSHUA  MARVEL.     Svo,  Paper,  40  cents. 

BLADE -O'- GRASS.     Illustrated.     Svo,  Paper,  35  cents. 

GOLDEN  GRAIN.  A  Sequel  to  "  Blade-o'-Grass.''   Illustrated. 
Svo,  Paper,  35  cents.       3  ^j^  ^ 


Published  by  HARPER  c^•  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

Either  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 
States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


Blade-O'-Grass. 


INTRODUCTION. 

STONEY   ALLEV. 

?5N  the  heart  of  a 
very  maze  of  courts 
and  lanes  Stoney 
Alley  proclaims  it- 
self. It  is  one  of 
a  multitude  of  de- 
foiTned  thorough- 
fares, which  are 
huddled  together 
— by  whim,  or  ca- 
price, or  mockery — in  a  populous  part  of  the 
city,  in  utter  defiance  of  all  architectural  rules. 
It  is  regarded  as  an  incontrovertible  law  that 
every  thing  must  have  a  beginning,  and  Stoney 
Alley  could  not  have  been  an  exception  to  this 
law.  It  is  certain  that  the  alley  and  its  vsui*- 
rounding  courts  and  lanes  must  once  upon  a 
time  have  been  a  space  where  houses  were  not ; 
where,  perhaps,  trees  grew,  and  grass  and  flow- 
ers. But  it  is  difficult  to  imagine ;  more  diffi- 
cult still  to  imagine  how  they  were  commenced, 
and  by  what  gradual  means  one  wretched  thor- 
oughfare was  added  to  another,  until  they  pre- 
sented themselves  to  the  world  in  the  shapes 
and  forms  they  now  bear;  resembling  au  un- 
gainly body  with  numerous  limbs,  every  one  of 
which  is  twisted  and  deformed.  Easier  to  fan- 
cy that  they  and  all  the  life  they  bear  si)rang 
up  suddenly  and  secretly  one  dark  night,  when 
Nature  was  in  a  sullen  mood ;  and  that  being 
where  they  are,  firmly  rooted,  they  have  remain- 
ed, unchangeable  and  unchanging,  from  genera- 
tion to  generation.  Records  exist  of  fair  islands 
rising  from  the  sea,  clothed  with  verdure  and 
replete  with  animal  life ;  but  this  is  the  bright 
aspect  of  phenomena  which  are  regarded  as  de- 
lusions by  many  sober  persons.  Putting  imag- 
ination aside,  therefore,  as  a  thing  of  small  ac- 
count in  these  days  (if  only  for  the  purpose  of 
satisfying  unbelievers),  and  coming  to  plain  mat- 
ter of  fact,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that  Stoney 


Alley  and  its  fellows  grew  upon  earth's  surface, 
and  did  not  spring  up,  ready-made,  from  below 
— although,  truth  to  tell,  it  was  worthy  of  such 
a  creation.  In  the  natural  course  of  things, 
the  neighborhood  must  have  had  architects  and 
builders ;  but  no  record  of  them  is  extant,  and 
none  is  necessary  for  the  puiT^oses  of  this  story. 
Sufficient  that  Stoney  Alley  rears  its  ugly  body 
— though  lowly  withal — in  the  very  heart  of 
London,  and  that  it  may  be  seen  any  day  in  the 
week  in  its  worst  aspect.  It  has  no  other :  it  is 
always  at  its  worst. 

Out  of  it  crawl,  from  sunrise  until  midnight, 
men  and  women,  who,  when  they  emerge  into 
the  wide  thoroughfare  which  may  be  regarded 
as  its  parent,  not  uncommonly  pause  for  a  few 
moments,  or  shade  their  eyes  with  their  hands, 
or  look  about  them  strangely,  as  if  they  have  re- 
ceived a  surprise,  or  as  if  the  different  world  in 
which  they  find  themselves  requires  considera- 
tion. Into  it  crawl,  from  sunrise  until  midnight, 
the  same  men  and  women,  who,  it  may  be  ob- 
sened,  draw  their  breath  more  freely  when  they 
are  away  from  the  wide  thoroughfares,  and  who 
plunge  into  Stoney  Alley  as  dusty,  heat-worn 
travelers  might  plunge  into  a  refreshing  bath, 
where  the  cool  waters  bring  relief  to  the  parched 
skin.  What  special  comfort  these  men  and 
women  find  there,  would  be  matter  for  amaze- 
ment to  hundreds  of  thousands  of  other  men 
and  women  whose  ways  of  life,  happily,  lie  in 
pleasanter  places.  But  Stoney  Alley,  to  these 
crawlers,  is  Home. 

Its  houses  could  never  have  been  bright ;  its 
pavements  and  roads— for  it  has  those,  though 
rough  specimens,  Uke  their  treaders — could  never 
have  been  fresh.  Worn-out  stones  and  bricks, 
having  served  their  time  elsewhere  and  been 
cashiered,  were  probably  brought  into  requisi- 
tion here  to  commence  a  new  and  unclean  life. 
No  cart  had  ever  been  seen  in  Stoney  Alley :  it 
was  too  narrow  for  one.  A  horse  had  once  lived 
there — a  spare,  sad,  blind  horse,  belonging  to  a 
coster-monger,  who  worked  his  patient  servant 


10 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


sixteen  hours  a  day,  and  fed  it  upon  Heaven 
knows  what.  It  was  a.  poor,  patient  creature ; 
and  as  it  trudged  along,  with  its  head  down,  it 
seemed  by  its  demeanor  to  express  an  under- 
standing of  its  meanness.  That  it  was  blind 
may  have  been  a  merciful  dispensation ;  for,  in- 
asmuch as  we  do  not  know  for  certain  whether 
such  beasts  can  draw  comparisons  as  well  as 
carts,  it  may  have  been  spared  the  pangs  of  envy 
and  bitterness  which  it  might  have  experienced 
at  the  sight  of  the  well-fed  horses  that  passed  it 
on  the  road.  It  was  as  thin  as  a  live  horse  well 
could  be — so  thin  that  a  cat  might  have  been 
forgiven  for  looking  at  it  with  contempt,  as  be- 
ing likely  to  serve  no  useful  pui^pose  after  its 
worldly  trudgings  were  ended.  Its  mane  was 
the  raggedest  mane  that  ever  was  seen ;  and  it 
had  no  tail.  What  of  its  hair  had  not  been  ap- 
propriated by  its  master,  the  coster-monger,  had 
been  plucked  out  ruthlessly,  from  time  to  time, 
by  sundry  boys  and  girls  in  Stoney  Alley — being 
incited  thereto  by  an  ingenious  youth,  who  plait- 
ed the  horse-hair  into  watch-guards,  and  who 
paid  his  young  thieves  in  weak  liquorice-water, 
at  the  rate  of  a  tea-spoonful  for  every  dozen 
hairs — long  ones — from  the  unfortunate  horse's 
tail.  For  years  had  this  poor  beast  been  wont 
to  stumble  over  the  stones  in  Stoney  Alley  when 
its  day's  work  was  over,  and  wait  like  a  human 
being  before  its  master's  house  for  the  door  to 
open — rubbing  its  nose  gently  up  and  down  the 
panels  when  a  longer  delay  than  usual  occurred. 
The  door  being  opened,  it  used  to  enter  the  nar- 
row passage,  and  fill  the  house  with  thunderous 
sound  as  it  walked  into  a  little  dirty  yard,  where 
a  few  charred  boards  (filched  from  a  fire)  had 
been  tacked  together  in  the  form  of  a  shed, 
which  offered  large  hospitality  to  wind  and  rain. 
In  this  shed  the  wretched  beast  took  its  ease 
and  enjoyed  its  leisure,  and  died  one  night  so 
quietly  and  unexpectedly  that  the  coster-monger, 
when  he  learned  the  fact  in  the  morning,  cursed 
it  for  an  ungrateful  "  warmint, "  and  declared 
that  if  his  dumb  servant  had  yesterday  shown 
any  stronger  symptoms  of  dying  than  it  had 
usually  exhibited,  he  would  have  sold  it  for 
*' two -pun -ten  to  Jimmy  the  Tinman."  So 
deeply  was  he  impressed  by  the  ingratitude  of 
the  animal,  that  he  swore  he  would  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  the  breed ;  and  he  bought 
a  donkey — a  donkey  with  such  a  vicious  temper, 
and  such  an  obstinate  disposition,  that  the  cos- 
ter-monger, in  his  endeavors  to  render  it  submis- 
sive, became  as  fond  of  it  as  if  it  were  one  of  his 
own  kindred,  and  soon  gi-ew  to  treat  it  in  ex- 
actly the  same  manner  as  he  treated  his  wife. 
It  would  have  been  diflUcult,  indeed,  to  decide 


which  was  the  more  important  creature  of  the 
two— the  wife  or  the  donkey;  for  on  two  dis- 
tinct occasions  the  coster-monger  was  summon- 
ed before  a  magistrate — once  for  ill-treating  his 
wife,  and  once  for  ill-treating  his  donkey — and 
the  sentence  pronounced  on  each  occasion  was 
precisely  the  same.  It  may  be  noted,  as  a  cu- 
rious contrast  (affording  no  useful  lesson  that  I 
am  aware  of),  that  when  the  coster-monger  came 
out  of  prison  for  ill-treating  his  wife,  he  went 
home  and  beat  the  poor  creature  unmercifully, 
who  sat  sobbing  her  heart  out  in  a  corner  the 
while ;  and  that  when  he  came  out  of  prison  for 
ill-treating  his  donkey,  he  went  into  the  rickety 
shed  in  his  back-yard  and  belabored  the  obsti- 
nate brute  with  a  heavy  stick.  But  the  donkey, 
cunning  after  its  kind,  watched  its  opportunity, 
and  gave  the  coster-monger  such  a  spiteful  kick 
that  he  walked  lame  for  three  months  afterward. 
It  would  be  unfair  to  the  coster-monger  not  to 
state  that  he  was  not  the  only  husband  in  those 
thoroughfares  who  was  in  the  habit  of  beating 
his  wife.  He  was  but  one  of  a  very  numerous 
Brute  family,  in  whose  breasts  mercy  finds  no 
dwelling-place,  and  who  marry  and  bring  up 
children  in  their  own  form  and  likeness,  morally 
as  well  as  physically.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that 
when  the  inhumanity  of  the  members  of  this 
prolific  family  is  brought  before  the  majesty  of 
the  law  for  judgment — as  is  done  every  day  of 
our  lives — the  punishment  meted  out  is  general- 
ly light  and  insignificant  as  compared  to  the  of- 
fense. Yet  it  may  be  answered  that  these  wife- 
beaters  and  general  Brutes  were  children  once ; 
and  the  question  may  be  asked.  Whether,  taking 
into  consideration  that  no  opportunity  was  offer- 
ed to  them  of  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  a  better 
condition  of  things,  they  are  fully  responsible  for 
their  actions  now  that  they  are  men  ?  We  wage 
war  against  savage  beasts  for  our  own  protec- 
tion. But  how  about  savage  men,  who  might 
have  been  taught  better,  who  might  have  been 
humanized  ?  We  press  our  thumb  upon  them, 
and  make  laws  to  punish  the  exercise  of  their 
lawless  passions.  But  have  they  no  case  against 
us?  Is  all  the  right  on  our  side,  and  all  the 
wrong  on  theirs  ?  That  the  problem  is  an  old 
one,  is  the  more  to  be  lamented;  every  year, 
nay,  every  hour,  its  roots  are  striking  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  social  stratum.  The  prov- 
erb, "  when  things  are  quiet,  let  them  be  quiet," 
is  a  bad  proverb,  like  many  others  which  are  ac- 
cepted as  wisdom's  essence.  Not  by  a  man's  quiet 
face,  but  by  his  busy  brain  and  heart,  do  we  judge 
him.  If  there  be  benevolence  in  statesmanship, 
the  problem  should  be  considered  in  its  entirety 
without  delay.     By-and-by  it  may  be  too  late. 


BLADE.  0'- GRASS. 


11 


PARTI. 


A  "STRANGE  EVENT  OCCUBS  IN  8T0NEY  ALLEY. 

Delicate  feather-flakes  of  snow  were  floating 
gently  down  over  all  the  city.  In  some  parts 
the  snow  fe.U  white  and  pure,  and  so  remained 
for  many  hours.  In  other  parts,  no  sooner  did 
it  reach  the  ground  than  it  was  converted  into 
slush— losing  its  purity,  and  becoming  instantly 
defiled.  This  was  its  fate  in  Stoney  Alley  ;  yet 
even  there,  as  it  rested  upon  the  roofs  and  eaves, 
it  was  fresh  and  beautiful  for  a  time.  In  which 
contrasted  aspects  a  possible  suggestion  might 
arise  of  the  capability  of  certain  things  for  grace 
and  holiness,  if  they  are  not  trodden  into  the  mire. 

An  event  had  just  occurred  in  Stoney  Alley 
which  was  the  occasion  of  much  excitement. 
This  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  the  birth  of 
twin  girls  in  one  of  the  meanest  houses  in  the 
alley.  The  mother,  a  poor  sickly  woman,  whose 
husband  had  deserted  her,  was  so  weakened  and 
prostrated  by  her  confinement,  and  by  the  want 
of  nourishing  food,  that  she  lived  but  a  dozen 
days  after  the  birth  of  her  babes.  No  one  knew 
where  the  father  was ;  he  and  his  wife  had  not 
lived  long  in  the  neighborhood,  and  what  was 
known  of  him  was  not  to  his  credit,  although 
with  a  certain  class  he  was  not  unpopular.  He 
was  a  lazy,  surly  fellow,  who  passed  his  waking 
hours  in  snarling  at  the  better  condition  of  things 
by  which  he  was  surrounded.  The  sight  of  a 
carriage  made  his  blood  boil  with  envy;  not- 
withstanding which  he  took  delight  in  walking  in 
the  better  thoroughfares  of  the  city,  and  feeding 
his  soul  with  the  bitter  sight  of  well-dressed  peo- 
ple and  smiling  faces.  Then  he  would  come 
back  to  his  proper  home,  and  snarl  at  society  to 
pot-house  audiences,  and  in  his  own  humble 
room  would  make  his  unhappy  wife  unhappier 
by  his  reviling  and  discontent.  He  called  him- 
self a  working-man,  but  had  as  much  right  to 
the  title  as  the  vagabond  beggar  who,  dressed  in 
broadcloth,  is  wheeled  about  in  an  easy-chair, 
in  the  West  End  of  London,  and  who  (keeping 
a  sharp  look-out  for  the  police  the  while)  exhib- 
its a  placard  proclaiming  himself  to  be  a  re- 
spectable commercial  traveler,  who  has  lost  the 
use  of  his  limbs.  He  traded  upon  the  title,  how- 
ever, and  made  some  little  money  out  of  it,  hop- 
ing by  and-by  to  make  more  when  ho  had  be- 
come sufficiently  notorious  as  a  public  agitator. 
In  the  mean  time  he  (perhaps  out  of  revenge 
upon  society)  deserted  his  wife  when  she  was 
near  her  confinement,  and  left  her  to  the  mercy 
of  strangers.  She  could  not  very  well  have  fared 
worse  than  she  did  in  that  tender  charge.  She 
bore  two  babes,  and  died  without  a  sign. 


The  mother  was  bnried  the  day  before  Christ- 
mas, and  the  babes  were  left  to  chance  charity. 
There  were  man^;<6«i§a  lodgers  in  the  how 
in  which  the  twin  gn^^Mfjf^fii^^^^t^ 
one  of  them  was  rich  enoSgpkSt(t±B0»Sf0fr Her- 
self the  incumbrance  of  two  such  serious  re- 
sponsibilities. The  station-house  was  spoken  of, 
the  Foundling,  the  work-house ;  but  not  a  soul 
was  daring  enough  to  carry  out  one  of  the  sug- 
gestions. This  arose  from  a  fear  of  conse- 
quences— in  the  shape,  perhaps,  of  an  acknowl- 
edged personal  responsibility,  which  might  prove 
troublesome  in  the  event  of  the  station-house, 
the  work-house,  or  the  Foundling  refusing  to 
take  charge  of  the  infants.  Moses  in  the  bul- 
rushes was  not  in  a  worse  plight  than  these  un- 
fortunate babes  in  Stoney  Alley. 

What  on  earth  was  to  be  done  with  them? 
Every  person  in  the  house  might  get  into  trouble 
if  they  were  left  to  die.  The  house,  small  as  it 
was,  accommodated  five  or  six  distinct  families 
— each  occupying  a  room— in  addition  to  two 
bachelors — one  a  vagrant,  the  other  a  hawker  in 
cheap  glass-ware.  These  last  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  assume  the  slightest  shadow  of  re- 
sponsibility. At  length  a  bright  idea  struck  a 
charitable  woman  in  the  house.  Armed  only 
with  a  calico  apron  with  a  large  bib  and  an  im- 
mense pocket  in  front  (like  a  stomacher),  the 
charitable  soul  went  about  to  solicit  contributions 
in  aid  of  the  infants.  As  she  walked  round  and 
about  the  narrow  alleys  and  courts,  soliciting 
from  every  body,  she  made  quite  a  stir  in  the 
neighborhood  by  the  vigorous  manner  in  which 
she  rattled  the  coppers  in  her  capacious  pocket. 
A  gi'cat  many  gave,  farthings  and  half-pence  be- 
ing in  the  ascendant — the  largest  contribution 
being  given  by  the  bachelor  vagrant  above  men- 
tioned, who  gave  twopence  with  the  air  of  a  gen- 
tleman— better  still,  with  the  true  spirit  of  one ; 
for  he  gave  more  than  he  could  afford,  and  took 
no  glory  to  himself  for  the  action.  Attracted 
by  the  rattle  of  the  coppers,  a  singular-looking 
little  man,  with  a  shriveled  face,  came  to  the 
door  of  his  shop,  and  was  instantly  accosted  by 
the  kind-hearted  soul. 

'■'■You'll  give  a  copper  or  two,  I  know,  Mr. 
Virtue,"  said  the  woman. 

•'Then  you  know  more  than  I  do,"  replied 
the  man.     "  I  don't  give.     I  lend." 

*'  What  '11  you  lend  on  'em,  then  ?"  asked  the 
woman,  good-humoredly. 

"Lend  on  what?"  •• 

"  On  the  poor  little  twins  that  was  bom  in  our 
house  a  fortnight  ago." 

"Oh,  that's  what  you're  up  to,"  exclaimed 
the  man,  whose  eyes  were  the  most  extraordi- 


12 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


nary  pair  that  ever  were  seen  in  human  face— for 
one  was  as  mild  as  London  milk,  and  the  other 
glared  like  a  fuiy.  "That's  what  you're  up  to. 
CoUectin'  for  them  brats  afore  they  learn  to  tell 
lies  fortheirselves." 

"They're  as  sweet  a  pair  as  ever  you  see," 
said  the  woman.  "Just  give  it  a  thought,  Mr. 
Virtue ;  you're  a  man  o'  sense — " 

"  Yah !"  from  the  man,  in  the  most  contempt- 
uous of  tones,  and  with  the  fiercest  of  glares 
from  his  furious  eye. 

*'  There  they  are,  without  a  mother,  as  'elpless 
as  'elpless  can  be,"  persisted  the  woman,  with 
a  wonderful  display  of  cheerfulness.  "Come, 
now,  you'll  give  a  copper  although  you  do  look 
so  grumpy." 

The  cynic  turned  into  his  dark  shop  at  this 
last  appeal,  but  as  he  turned  a  penny  dropped 
from  his  pocket.  The  woman  picked  it  up  with  a 
pleasant  laugh,  and,  adding  it  to  her  store,  pro- 
ceeded on  her  charitable  mission.  But,  industri- 
ous and  assiduous  as  she  was,  the  sum  total  col- 
lected was  very  small ;  about  sufiicient  to  keep 
the  infants  for  half  a  week.  The  kind-hearted 
woman  took  the  babes,  and  nursed  them  pro  tern. 
She  had  a  family  of  dirty  children  of  her  own, 
who  were  bringing  themselves  up  in  the  gutters ; 
for  she  could  not  attend  to  them,  so  fully  was  her 
time  occupied  in  other  ways.  She  could  not, 
therefore,  be  expected  to  take  permanent  charge 
of  the  motherless  babes.  And  so  h§r  husband 
told  her,  grumblingly,  when  he  came  home  from 
his  work  on  Christmas- eve.  All  that  she  said 
was,  "Poor  little  things !"  and  fell  to — rough  as 
she  was — detecting  imaginary  beauties  in  the  ba- 
bies' faces :  a  common  trick  of  mothers,  which 
no  man  can  afford  to  be  cross  with,  especially  in 
his  own  wife,  and  the  woman  who  has  borne  him 
children. 

"Can't  put  'em  out  in  the  cold,  the  pretty 
dears !"  said  the  woman,  tenderly. 

"We've  got  enough  of  our  own,"  responded 
her  husband,  not  unkindly,  and  yet  with  a  cer- 
tain firmness  ;  "  and  there's  more  coming — 
worse  luck!"  But  these  last  two  words  he  said 
beneath  his  breath,  and  his  wife  did  not  hear 
them. 

"All  the  more  reason  for  being  kind  to  these," 
said  the  woman.  "They'll  be  handsome  girls 
when  they  grow  up.  Look'ee  here,  Sam,  this 
one's  got  a  dimple,  just  like — like — "  Her  voice 
trailed  off  softly,  and  her  husband  knew  that 
she  was  thinking  of  their  first-bom,  that  had  lived 
but  a  few  weeks. 

I  am  aware  that  it  is  the  fashion  with  a  large 
class  to  regard  the  portrayal  of  sentiment  among 
very  common  people  as  fanciful  and  untrue  to 


nature.  I  differ  from  this  class,  I  am  glad  to 
say.  True  love  for  women,  and  true  tenderness 
for  children,  are  common  to  all  of  us,  whether 
high  or  low.  Cynics  can  not  alter  what  is  natu- 
ral— in  others. 

The  man  felt  kindly  toward  his  wife  and  the 
babes,  but  he  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  saddle 
himself  with  a  couple  of  ready-made  infants. 
He  saw,  however,  that  his  wife  was  in  a  foolishly 
tender  mood,  and  he  let  the  subject  drop  for  the 
present. 

It  may  have  been  eight  o'clock  in  the  white 
night,  and  the  bright  snow  was  still  falling  like 
feathers  from  angels'  wings,  when,  at  the  door  of 
the  house  in  which  the  twins  had  been  born  and 
the  mother  had  died,  a  lady  and  gentleman 
stopped,  and,  obtaining  entrance,  asked  for  the 
landlady.  Unmistakably  lady  and  gentleman, 
though  plainly  dressed.  Not  highly  born,  but  as 
truly  lady  and  gentleman  as  the  best  in  the  land. 
They  were  strangers  to  the  landlady  of  the  house ; 
but  she  rose  the  instant  they  entered  her  apart- 
ment, and  remained  standing  during  the  inter- 
view. 

"We  have  to  apologize  for  this  intrusion," 
commenced  the  lady,  in  a  gentle  voice  ;  "but  al- 
though we  are  strangers  to  you,  we  aie  not  here 
out  of  rudeness." 

"  I'm  sure  of  that,  ma'am,"  replied  the  land- 
lady, dusting  two  chairs  with  her  apron.  "  Will 
you  and  the  gentleman  take  a  seat  ?" 

"This  is  my  husband,"  said  the  lady,  seating 
herself.  ' '  Every  year,  on  the  anniversary  of 
this  evening,  with  the  exception  of  last  year,  we 
have  been  in  the  habit  of  coming  to  some  such 
place  as  this,  where  only  poor  people  live — " 

"Ah,  you  may  say  that,  ma'am !  The  poor- 
est." 

— "  It  is  so,  unfortunately.  God  help  them! 
Every  year  until  the  last  we  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  coming  to  some  such  place  in  furtherance 
of  a  scheme — a  whim,  perhaps  you'll  call  it — the 
development  of  which  gives  us  the  chief  pleas- 
ure of  our  lives.  We  have  no  family  of  our  own, 
no  children  that  can  properly  call  me  mother  and 
my  husband  father  ;  so  every  year  we  adopt  one 
and  bring  it  up.  We  have  six  now,  as  many  as 
we  have  been  able  to  keep  ;  for  last  year  we  lost 
part  of  our  means  through  unwise  speculation, 
for  which  I  and  my  husband  were  equally  to 
blame—" 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  ma'am,"  interposed 
the  landlady,  sympathizingly,  standing  in  an  at- 
tentive attitude,  with  the  corner  of  her  apron  be- 
tween her  fingers. 

— "And  having  as  many  little  responsibilities 
on  us  as  our  means  would  enable  us  to  take 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


13 


UBB  KINU-UE.VBTED  LODGER  WAS  NimSINQ  THE  TWINS. 


proper  care  of,  we  were  unable  to  add  another 
to  our  family  of  little  ones.  But  this  year  a  for- 
tunate thing  has  occurred  to  us.  A  kind  fiiend 
has  placed  a  small  sum  at  our  disposal,  which 
will  enable  us  to  take  a  seventh  child,  and  rear 
it  in  comfort  and  respectability." 

*'And  a  lucky  child  that  seventh  'uU  be,"  re- 
marked the  landlady.  *'I'raa  seventh  child 
myself,  and  so  was  my  mother  before  me,  and 
we  was  both  born  on  a  7th." 

The  lady  smiled,  and  continued : 

*' Every  child  we  have  is  an  orphan,  without 
father  or  mother,  which  we  believe  to  be  neces- 
sary for  the  proper  furtherance  of  our  scheme. 
We  feed  them  and  nourish  them  properly — in- 
deed, as  if  they  were  really  our  own — and  when 
they  are  old  enough,  they  will  be  put  to  some  re- 
spectable occupation  which  will  render  them  in- 
dependent of  the  world.     Among  the  many  poor 


children  round  about  here,  do  you  know  of  one 
who,  having  no  natural  protectors,  would  be  bet- 
tered by  coming  under  our  charge  ?  These  let- 
ters will  satisfy  you  of  our  fitness  for  the  task, 
and  that  we  are  in  earnest." 

"Lord  bless  me!"  exclaimed  the  landlady, 
impelled  to  that  exclamation  by  sudden  thought 
of  the  twins  up  stairs,  and  not  casting  a  glance 
at  the  papers  which  were  placed  in  her  hands. 
"You  don't  mean  what  you  say ?" 

"Indeed  we  do.  You  will  bo  kind  enough 
to  understand  that  we  do  not  desire  to  take  a 
child  who  has  parents  living,  but  one  whom  hard 
circumstances  has  placed  in  the  world  friendless 
and  alone.  These  poor  courts  and  alleys  abound 
in  children — " 

"Ah,  that  they  do ;  and  a  nice  pest  they  ore, 
a  many  on  'em.     They're  as  thick  as  fleas." 

— "And  at  this  season  it  is  good  to  think  of 


14 


BLADE -O'.  GRASS. 


them,  and  to  try  to  do  some  little  thing  in  their 
behalf.  It  is  but  little  that  we  can  do — very, 
very  little.  Do  you  know  of  such  a  child  as  we 
seek  for  now  ?" 

"A  girl?" 

"A  girl  or  boy." 

"  God  Almighty  bless  you,  ma'am !"  cried  the 
landlady.  "  Stop  here  a  minute,  and  I'll  let  you 
know." 

She  ran  in  haste  up  stairs  to  where  her  kind- 
hearted  lodger  was  nursing  the  twins. 

"I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons,  Mrs.  Man- 
ning," she  said,  panting,  "and  you  too,  Mr. 
Manning ;  and  I  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas, 
and  many  on  'em !  I'm  that  out  of  breath,  and 
that  astonished,  that  I  don't  know  if  I'm  on  my 
head  or  my  heels.  Stay  a  minute,  my  good 
souls ;  I'll  be  back  in  a  jiffy." 

With  that  she  ran  out  of  the  room  and  down 
§rairs  to  assure  herself  that  her  visitors  had  not 
flown,  or  that  she  had  not  been  dreaming.  Hav- 
ing satisfied  herself,  she  ran  up  stairs  again,  and 
sat  down  in  a  more  panting  state  than  before. 

"I  thought  I  was  dreaming,  and  that  they 
was  apparitions ! "  she  gasped. 

Mr.  Manning,  being  one  of  those  English- 
men who  look  upon  their  habitations  as  their 
castles,  was  inclined  to  resent  these  intrusions. 
Unconsciously  throwing  a  large  amount  of  ag- 
gressiveness in  his  tone  and  manner,  he  asked 
his  landlady  if  he  owed  her  any  rent,  and  re- 
ceived for  answer,  No,  that  he  didn't,  and  the 
expression  of  a  wish  that  every  body  was  like 
him  in  this  respect. 

"  Veiy  well,  then,"  said  Mr,  Manning,  not  at 
all  mollified  by  the  landlady's  compliment,  and 
speaking  so  surlily  that  (as  the  landlady  after- 
ward said,  in  relating  the  circumstance),  if  it  had 
not  been  for  her  being  out  of  breath,  and  for 
thinking  of  those  two  precious  babes,  he  would 
have  "put  her  back  up"  there  and  then — "if  I 
.  don't  owe  you  any  thing,  what  do  you  mean  by 
coming  bouncing  into  my  room  in  this  man- 
ner?" 

*'I  asks  your  pardon,"  said  the  landlady,  with 
dignity ;  but  instantly  softening,  as  she  thought 
of  her  visitors  down  stairs;  "but  you've  got  a 
'art  in  your  bosom,  and  you've  got  the  feelings  of 
a  father.  The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is" — and 
here  she  proceeded  to  explain  the  visit  she  had 
had,  and  the  object  of  her  visitors.  "Ah,  Mr. 
Manning,"  she  continued,  following  the  direc- 
tion of  his  eyes  toward  the  two  babes  lying  in 
his  wife's  lap,  "you've  got  the  same  idea  as  I 
had  in  coming  up  here.  Here's  these  two  bless- 
ed babes,  with  no  mother,  and  no  father  to  speak 
of;  for  I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  turn  up.  What's 


to  become  of  'em  ?  Who's  to  take  care  of  'em  ? 
I'm  sure  you  can't." 

"  No,  that  I  can't ;  and  don't  intend  to." 

"And  no  one  expects  you.  Sir.  You've  got 
a  big  enough  family  of  your  own.  Well,  here's 
this  lady  and  gentleman  setting  down  stairs  this 
blessed  minute  as  wants  a  child,  and  as  '11  do 
what's  right  and  proper  by  it," 

"  But  there's  a  pair  of  'em.  Won't  they  take 
the  two  ?" 

"One  they  said,  and  one  they  mean.  They 
can't  hardly  aiford  that,  they  said.  And  I'm  as 
certain  as  I  am  that  I'm  setting  here,  that  if  they 
knew  there  was  two  of  'em,  they  wouldn't  part 
'em  for  the  world.  No,  they'd  go  somewhere 
else ;  and  the  chance  'd  be  lost. " 

"But  they  want  a  child  that  ain't  got  no  father 
nor  mother.  Now  these  young  uns  have  a  fa- 
ther; and  that  you  know." 

* '  No,  I  don't ;  I  don't  know  nothing  of  the 
kind.  'Tain't  the  first  story  I've  told  by  a  many, " 
said  the  landlady,  in  answer  to  Mr,  Manning's 
look  of  astonishment ;  * '  and  I  don't  mind  telling 
this  one  to  do  a  little  baby  good." 

"  What's  to  become  of  the  other  ?" 

"We'll  look  after  her  between  us.  One  '11 
take  her  one  day,  and  one  another.  Lord  bless 
you,  Mr.  Manning,  we  shall  be  able  to  manage." 

"And  if  the  father  comes  back  ?" 

"  I'll  get  the  lady's  address  and  give  it  to  him ; 
and  then  he  can  do  as  he  likes." 

"It's  the  best  thing  that  can  be  done,"  said 
Mr.  Manning ;  ' '  though  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  mind  you ;  it's  none  of  my  business.  I've  got 
troubles  enough  of  my  own.  But  it  ain't  every 
young  un  that  gets  such  a  chance." 

"No,  that  it  ain't;"  and  the  landlady  pull- 
ed her  chair  close  to  that  of  Mrs.  Manning. 
"  Which  shall  it  be,  my  dear  ?" 

This  proved  to  be  a  very  difficult  question  to 
answer.  First  they  decided  that  it  was  to  be 
this  one,  then  that ;  then  soft  -  hearted  Mrs. 
Manning  began  to  cry,  and  said  it  was  a  sin  to 
part  them.  And  the  babes  lay  sleeping  uncon- 
sciously the  while  this  momentous  point  was  be- 
ing discussed,  the  decision  of  which  might  con- 
demn one  to  want  and  dirt  and  misery — to 
crime,  perhaps — and  the  other  to  a  career  where 
good  opportunity  might  produce  a  happy  and 
virtuous  life.  At  length  it  was  decided,  and  one 
was  chosen  ;  but  when  the  landlady  prepared  to 
take  the  child,  she  found  that  the  fingers  of  the 
babes  were  tightly  interlaced ;  so  she  left  them  in 
Mrs.  Manning's  lap,  with  instructions  to  get  the 
chosen  one  ready,  and  went  down  to  her  vis- 
itors. 

"Poor  child!"  said  the  lady,  at  the  conclu- 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


15 


sion  of  the  landlady's  recital ;  "  and  the  mother 
was  only  buried  yesterday !" 

"  Only  yesterday,  ma'am,"  responded  the  land- 
lady; "and  the  dear  little  thing  is  left  without 
a  friend.  There's  not  one  of  us  that  wouldn't 
be  glad  to  take  care  of  it ;  but  we're  too  poor, 
ma'am ;  and  that's  the  fact." 

"The  child's  younger  than  we  could  have 
wished,"  mused  the  lady,  with  a  glance  at  her 
husband;  "but  it  would  seem  like  a  cruel  de- 
sertion, now  that  we  have  heard  its  sad  story." 

Her  husband  nodded,  and  the  landlady,  keen- 
ly watchful,  said,  eagerly : 

"I'll  bring  it  down  to  you,  ma'am.  One  of 
the  lodgers  is  nursing  it;  but  her  husband's 
grumbling  at  her,  and  making  her  miserable 
about  it.  He  says  he's  got  enough  of  his  own ; 
and  so  he  has." 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Manning  had  the  baby  ready 
— she  had  dressed  the  child  in  some  old  baby- 
clothes  of  her  own — and  before  she  let  it  go  out 
of  her  arms,  she  said,  as  if  the  little  thing  could 
understand : 

"  Kiss  sister,  baby.  You'll  never  see  her 
again,  perhaps ;  and  if  yoa  do,  you  won't  know 
her. " 

She  placed  their  lips  close  together;  and  at 
that  moment  they  opened  their  eyes,  and  smiled 
prettily  on  one  another.  The  man  and  the  two 
women  stood  by,  gazing  earnestly  at  the  babes. 


Tears  were  in  Mrs.  Manning's  eyes  as  she  wit- 
nessed the  strange  parting ;  the  landlady  was 
silent  and  pensive:  ^and  the  man,  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  seemei^QjJ>esuddenly  engrossed  in 
the  consideration  of  sSJ^ft^j^^l^i^btepH  wliicli 
he  found  too  perplexin^^isiBBaES?^3fs  wife 
raised  the  fortunate  babe  to  his  face. 

"A  happy  New- Year  to  you,  little  un,"  said 
the  not  unkindly  man,  as  he  kissed  the  child. 

"Suppose  they  were  our'n,  Sam,"  said  his 
wife,  softly  and  tearfully ;  "we  shouldn't  like 
this  to  happen." 

"  But  they're  not  our'n,"  replied  her  husband ; 
"  and  that  makes  all  the  ditFerence." 

And  yet  there  was  a  wistful  expression  on  his 
fiice,  as  the  landlady  took  the  baby  out  of  the 
room. 

"I've  kept  the  prettiest  one,"  his  wife  whis- 
pered to  him — "  the  one  with  the  dimple." 

The  lady  and  gentleman — she  with  her  new 
charge  wrapped  in  her  warm  shawl,  and  pressed 
closely  to  her  bosom  —  walked  briskly  through 
the  cold  air  toward  their  home,  which  lay  in  a 
square  about  a  mile  from  Stoney  Alley.  In  the 
centre  of  the  square  was  a  garden,  the  wood- 
growth  in  M'liich,  though  bare  of  leaves,  looked 
as  beautiful  in  their  white  mantle  as  ever  they 
had  done  in  their  brightest  summer.  The  snow- 
lined  trees  stood  out  boldly  yet  gracefully,  and 
their  every  branch,  fringed  in  purest  white,  was 


/ 


'TUB  LADY  AXR  OKNTLEM.VN   WALUEU   BBI8KLV  TOBOITOII  TUS  OOLU   Al 


16 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


an  emblem  of  loveliness.  They  gleamed  grand- 
ly in  the  moon's  light,  mute  witnesses  of  the 
greatness  of  Him  whose  lightest  work  is  an  evi- 
dence of  perfect  wisdom  and  goodnese. 


HOW   SHE    ACQUIRED    THE    NAME   OF   BLADE-O - 
GRASS. 

Thus,  while  one  .little  babe  was  tended  and 
watched  by  benevolent  hands  and  eyes,  the  fate 
of  the  other — the  prettier  one,  she  with  the  un- 
fortunate dimple — was  intrusted  to  the  shapeless 
hands  of  chance.  To  such  tender  care  as  had 
happily  fallen  to  its  lot  the  fortunate  one  may 
be  left  for  a  time.  Turn  we  to  the  other,  and 
watch  its  strange  bringing  up. 

Proverbially,  too  many  cooks  spoil  the  broth  ; 
and  this  forlorn  babe  was  left  to  the  care  of  too 
many  cooks,  who,  however,  in  this  instance,  did 
not  spoil  the  broth  by  meddling  with  it,  but  by 
almost  utterly  neglecting  it.  The  landlady's 
declaration  that  "We'll  look  after  her  between 
us ;  one  '11  take  her  one  day,  and  one  another, " 
although  uttered  in  all  sincerity,  turned  out  bad- 
ly in  its  application.  What  is  every  body's  busi- 
ness is  nobody's  business,  and  for  the  most  part 
the  babe  was  left  to  take  care  of  herself.  For  a 
little  while  Mrs.  Manning  was  the  child's  only 
friend ;  but  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  months 
she  fulfilled  her  husband's  apprehension,  and 
added  another  bantling  to  his  already  over- 
stocked quiver.  This  new  arrival  (which,  it 
must  be  confessed,  was  not  received  with  grati- 
tude by  its  father)  was  so  fractious,  and  so  be- 
sieged by  a  complication  of  infantile  disorders, 
that  all  Mrs.  Manning's  spare  moments  were 
fully  occupied,  and  she  had  none  to  devote  to 
other  people's  children.  The  motherless  child 
threatened  to  fare  badly  indeed.  But  now  and 
again  a  mother  wiio  had  lost  her  offspring  came 
to  the  little  stranger  and  suckled  her ;  so  that 
she  drew  life  from  many  bosoms,  and  may  be 
said  to  have  had  at  least  a  score  of  wet-nurses. 
And  thus  she  grew  up  almost  literally  in  the 
gutters,  no  one  owning  her,  no  one  really  caring 
for  her ;  and  yet  she  throve,  as  weeds  thrive — 
while  her  sister,  not  a  mile  away,  throve,  in  the 
care  of  kind  friends,  as  flowers  thrive.  Bom  in 
equality,  with  the  same  instincts  for  good  and 
evil,  with  the  same  capacity  for  good  and  evil, 
equally  likely  to  turn  out  good  or  bad,  should  it 
have  been  left  entirely  to  chance  that  one  might 
live  to  prove  a  blessing,  and  the  other  a  curse, 
to  society  ?    But  so  it  was. 

One  of  the  most  curious  circumstances  con- 
nected with  the  little  outcast  was  that  she  was 


not  known  by  any  settled  name.  It  grew  to  be 
a  fashion  to  call  her  by  all  sorts  of  names — now 
Polly,  now  Sally,  now  Young  Hussy,  now  Little 
Slut,  and  by  a  dozen  others,  not  one  of  which 
remained  to  her  for  any  length  of  time.  But 
when  she  was  three  years  of  age  an  event  oc- 
curred which  played  the  part  of  godmothers  and 
godfathers  to  her,  and  which  caused  her  to  re- 
ceive a  title  by  which  she  was  always  afterward 
known. 

There  was  not  a  garden  in  Stoney  Alley.  Not 
within  the  memory  of  living  man  had  a  flower 
been  known  to  bloom  there.  There  were  many 
poor  patches  of  ground,  crowded  as  the  neigh- 
borhood was,  which  might  have  been  devoted  to 
the  cultivation  of  a  few  bright  petals ;  but  they 
were  allowed  to  lie  fallow,  festering  in  the  sun. 
Thought  of  graceful  form  and  color  had  never 
found  expression  there.  Strange,  therefore,  that 
one  year,  when  Summer  was  treading  close  upon 
the  heel  of  Spring,  sending  Avarm,  sweet  winds  to 
herald  her  coming,  there  should  spring  up,  in 
one  of  the  dirtiest  of  all  the  back-yards  in  Stoney 
Alley,  two  or  three  blades  of  grass.  How  they 
came  there  was  a  mystery.  No  human  hand 
was  accountable  for  their  presence.  It  may  be 
that  a  bird,  flying  over  the  place,  had  mercifully 
dropped  a  seed,  or  that  a  kind  wind  had  borne 
it  to  the  spot.  But  however  they  came,  there 
they  were,  these  blades  of  grass,  peeping  up  from 
the  ground  shyly  and  wonderingly,  and  giving 
promise  of  bright  color  even  in  the  midst  of  the 
unwholesome  surroundings.  Our  little  castaway 
— she  was  no  better — now  three  years  of  age, 
was  sprawling  in  this  dirty  back-yard  with  a 
few  other  children — all  of  them  regular  students 
of  Dirt  College.  Attracted  by  the  little  bit  of 
color,  she  crawled  to  the  spot  where  it  shone  in 
the  light,  and  straightway  fell  to  watching  it,  and 
inhaling,  quite  unconsciously,  whatever  of  grace 
it  possessed.  Once  or  twice  she  touched  the 
tender  blades,  and  seemed  to  be  pleased  to  find 
them  soft  and  pliant.  The  other  children,  de- 
lighted at  having  the  monopoly  of  a  gutter  that 
ran  through  the  yard,  did  not  disturb  her ;  and 
so  she  remained  during  the  day,  watching  and 
wondering,  and  fell  asleep  by  the  side  of  the 
blades  of  grass,  and  dreamed,  perhaps,  of  bright- 
er colors  and  more  graceful  forms  than  had  ever 
yet  found  place  in  her  young  imagination.  The 
next  day  she  made  iier  way  again  to  the  spot, 
and  seeing  that  the  blades  had  grown  a  little, 
wondered  and  wondered,  and  unconsciously  ex- 
ercised that  innate  sense  of  worship  of  the  beau- 
tiful which  is  implanted  in  every  nature,  and 
which  causes  the  merest  babes  to  rejoice  at  light 
and  shapes  of  beauty  and  harmony  of  sound. 


BLADE.  0'.  GRASS. 


17 


What  is  more  wonderful  in  the  eyes  of  a  babe 
than  vivid  color  or  light,  however  kindled? 
what  more  sweet  to  its  senses  than  that  perfect 
harmony  of  sound  which  falls  upon  its  ears  as 
the  mother  sings  softly,  and  lulls  her  darling  to 
sleep  ?  This  latter  blessing  had  never  fallen  to 
the  lot  of  our  child ;  but  color  and  light  were  given 
to  her,  and  she  was  grateful  for  them.  She  grew 
to  love  these  emerald  leaves,  and  watched  them 
day  after  day,  until  the  women  round  about  ob- 
served and  commented  upon  her  strange  infatu- 
ation. But  one  evening,  when  the  leaves  were 
at  their  brightest  and  strongest,  a  man,  running 
hastily  through  the  yard,  crushed  the  blades  of 
grass  beneath  his  heel,  and  tore  them  from  the 
earth.  The  grief  of  the  child  was  intense.  She 
cast  a  passionate  yet  bewildered  look  at  the  man, 
and  picking  up  the  toni,  soiled  blades,  put  them 
in  the  breast  of  her  ragged  frock,  in  the  belief 
that  warmth  would  bring  them  back  to  life.  She 
went  to  bed  with  the  mangled  leaves  in  her  hot 
hand;  and  when  she  looked  at  them  the  next 
morning,  they  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  bright 
leaves  which  had  been  such  a  delight  to  her.  She 
went  to  the  spot  where  they  had  grown,  and  cried 
without  knowing  why ;  and  the  man  who  had  de- 
stroyed the  leaves  happening  to  pass  at  the  time, 
she  struck  at  him  with  her  little  fists.  He  push- 
ed her  aside  rather  roughly  with  his  foot ;  and 
Mrs,  Manning,  seeing  this,  and  having  also  seen 
the  destruction  of  the  leaves,  and  the  child's  wor- 
sliip  of  them,  blew  him  up  for  his  unkindness. 
He  merely  laughed,  and  said  he  wouldn't  have 
done  it  if  he  had  looked  where  he  was  going,  and 
that  it  was  a  good  job  for  the  child  that  she 
wasn't  a  blade  o'  grass  herself,  or  she  might 
have  been  trodden  down  with  the  others.  The 
stoiy  got  about  the  alley,  and  one  and  another, 
at  first  in  fun  or  derision,  began  to  call  the  child 
Little  Blade-o'-Grass,  until,  in  course  of  time,  it 
came  to  be  recognized  as  her  regular  name,  and 
she  was  known  by  it  all  over  the  neighborhood. 
So,  being  thus  strangely  christened.  Little  Blade- 
o'-Grass  grew  in  years  and  in  ignorance,  and  be- 
came a  worthy  member  of  Dirt  College,  in  which 
school  she  was  matriculated  for  the  battle  of  life. 


THE   LEGEND   OF  THE  TIGEH. 

At  a  very  early  age  indeed  was  Blade-o'- 
Grass  compelled  to  begin  the  battle  of  life.  Her 
gi"eatest  misfortune  was  that,  as  she  grew  in 
years,  she  grew  strong.  Had  she  been  a  weakly 
little  thing,  some  one  might  have  taken  pity  on 
her,  and  assumed  the  responsibility  of  maintaining 
her.  The  contingency  was  a  remote  one ;  but  all 
B 


by  it  was  utterly  destroyed 


chance  of  benefitii 
because  she  was  str 
said  to  have  had  semi 
time  that  she  attained 
a  corner  for  her  to  sleep  in  was  always  found  in 
the  house  in  which  she  was  born.  But  about 
that  time  certain  important  changes  took  place, 
which  materially  affected  her,  although  she  had 
no  hand  in  them.  The  landlady  gave  up  the 
house,  and  some  one  else  took  it,  and  turned  it 
into  a  shop.  The  lodgers  all  received  notice  to 
leave,  and  went  elsewhere  to  live.  A  great  slice 
of  luck  fell  to  the  share  of  Mr.  Manning.  An 
uncle  whom  he  had  never  seen  died  in  a  distant 
land,  and  left  his  money  to  his  relatives;  and  a 
shrewd  lawyer  made  good  pickings  by  hunting 
up  nephews  and  nieces  of  the  deceased.  Among 
the  rest  he  hunted  up  Mr.  Manning,  and  one  day 
he  handed  his  client  a  small  sum  of  money.  Mr. 
Manning  put  his  suddenly  acquired  wealth  to  a 
good  purpose — he  got  passage  in  a  government 
emigrant  ship,  and,  with  his  wife  and  large  fam- 
ily, bade  good-by  forever  to  Stoney  Alley.  He 
left  the  country — as  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
others  have  done — with  a  bitter  feeling  in  hL* 
heart  because  he  was  not  able  to  stop  in  it  and 
earn  a  decent  livelihood ;  but — as  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  others  have  done— he  lived  this 
feeling  down,  and  in  his  new  home,  with  better 
prospects  and  better  surroundings,  talked  of  his 
native  land — meaning  Stoney  Alley — as  the  "old 
countiy,"  in  terms  of  affection,  and  as  if  he  had 
been  treated  well  in  it.  It  will  be  easily  under- 
stood that  when  Blade-o'-Grass  lost  Mrs.  Man- 
ning, she  lost  her  best  friend. 

To  say  that  she  passed  an  easy  life  up  to  this 
point  of  her  career  would  be  to  state  what  is 
false.  The  child  was  in  continual  disgrace,  and 
scarcely  a  day  i)assed  that  was  not  watered  with 
l>er  tears.  Blows,  smacks,  and  harsh  words  were 
administered  to  her  freely,  until  she  grew  accus- 
tomed to  them,  and  they  lost  their  moral  force. 
She  deserved  them,  for  she  was  the  very  revei-se 
of  a  good  little  girl.  In  a  great  measure  her  ne- 
cessities made  her  what  she  was,  and  no  coun- 
teracting influence  for  good  approached  her.  If 
she  were  sent  for  beer,  she  would  stop  at  corners, 
and  taste  and  sip,  and  bring  home  shortaneasure. 
There  was  something  fearful  in  her  enjoyment ; 
but  she  had  no  power  nor  desire  to  resist  the 
temptation.  No  tragedy  queen,  before  the  con- 
summation of  the  final  horror,  ever  looked  round 
with  more  watchful,  wary,  fearsome  gaze  than 
did  Blade-o'-Grass  when,  having  nerved  her  soul 
to  take  a  sip  of  beer,  she  stopped  at  a  convenient 
comer,  or  in  the  shadow  of  a  dark  door-way,  to 
put  her  desire  into  execution.     And  then  she 


18 


BLADE- 0'- GRASS. 


"having  NESVED  UEU  soul  to  take  a  sip  of  BEEH,  sue  STOrPED  AT  A  CONVENIENT  COENEE." 


was  always  breaking  things.  The  mags  she  let 
fall  would  have  paved  Stoney  Alley.  But  there 
was  a  greater  temptation  than  beer :  Bread.  If 
she  were  sent  for  a  half-quartern  loaf,  she  would 
not  fail  to  dig  out  -with  liberal  fingers  the  soft 
portions  between  the  crusts,  and  eagerly  devour 
them.  Even  if  she  had  not  been  hungry — which 
would  have  been  a  white-letter  day  in  her  exist- 
ence— she  would  have  done  from  habit  what  she 
almost  invariably  was  urged  to  do  by  the  crav- 
ings of  her  stomach.  And  about  that  unfor- 
tunate stomach  of  hers,  calumnies  were  circula- 
ted and  believed  in.  So  persistent  an  eater  was 
Blade-o '-Grass,  so  conscientious  a  devourer  of 
any  thing  that,  legitimately  or  otherwise,  came 
in  her  way — quality  being  not  of  the  slightest 
object — that  a  story  got  about  that  she  had 
*' something"  in  her  inside,  some  living  creature 


of  a  ravenous  nature,  that  waited  for  the  food  as 
she  swallowed  it,  and  instantly  devoured  it  for 
its  o\vn  sustenance.  Such  things  had  been 
known  of.  At  some  remote  period  a  girl  in  the 
neighborhood  —  whose  personality  was  never 
traced,  but  whom  every  body  believed  in — had 
had  such  an  animal — a  few  called  it  a  "wolf," 
but  the  majority  insisted  that  it  was  a  *' tiger" 
— growing  inside  of  her,  and  this  animal,  so  the 
story  went,  grew  and  grew,  and  fed  upon  the 
girl's  life  till  it  killed  her.  The  "tiger"  had 
been  found  alive  after  the  girl's  death,  and,  bar- 
ing been  purchased  by  some  one  for  a  fabulous 
price,  was  embalmed  in  a  bottle  in  a  great  mu- 
seum, of  which  nobody  knew  the  name  or  the 
whereabouts.  As  an  allegory,  this  "tiger"  might 
have  served  to  illustrate  the  mouraful  story  of 
the  lives  of  Blade-o'-Grass  and  thousands  of 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


her  comrades — it  might  have  ser>'ed,  indeed,  to  I  mythical  story  was 
pomt  a  bitter  moral ;  but  there  was  nothing  al-  |  applied  to  the  case 
legorical  about  the  inhabitants  of  Stoney  Alley. 
They  only  dealt  in  hard  matter-of-fact,  and  the 


great  terror  to  her. 

in  tormenting  the  helpless  child  about  lier  "  ti- 
ger," and  for  a  long  time  the  slightest  allusion 
to  it  was  sufficient  to  cause  her  the  most  exqui- 
site anguish,  in  consequence  of  certain  male>olent 
declarations  that  she  ought  to  be  cut  open  and 
have  the  tiger  taken  out  of  her.  Indeed,  one 
miserable  old  fellow,  who  kept  a  rag  shop,  and 
who  had  in  his  window  two  or  three  dust-coated 
bottles  containing  commonplace  reptiles  pre- 
served in  spirits  of  wine,  took  a  malicious  pleas- 
ure in  declaring  that  the  operation  ought  to  bo 
really  performed  upon  Blade-o'-Grass,  and  that, 
in  the  interests  of  science,  she  ought  not  to  bo 
allowed  to  live.  It  was  the  crudest  of  sport  thus 
to  torture  the  poor  child;  for  the  simple  fact 
was  that  Blade-o'-Grass  was  nearly  always  hun- 
gry. It  was  nature  tugging  at  her  stomach- 
not  a  tiger. 

The  veiy  firet  night  of  ^Mrs.  Manning's  de- 
parture, Blade-o'-Grass  found  herself  without  a 
bed.  With  a  weary,  wretched  sense  of  desola- 
tion upon  her,  she  lingered  about  the  old  spot 
where  she  used  to  sleep,  and  even  ventured  to 
enter  at  the  back  of  the  house,  when  the  sharp 
"  Come,  get  out  o*^  this !"  of  the  new  proprietor 
sent  her  flying  away.  She  belonged  to  nobody, 
and  nobody  cared  for  her ;  so  she  wandered  and 
lingered  about  until  all  the  lights  in  the  shops 
and  houses  were  out.  She  had  gleaned  some 
small  pleasure  in  watching  these  lights ;  she  liad 
found  comfort  in  them  ;  and  when  they  were  all 
extinguished  and  she  was  in  darkness,  she  trem- 
bled under  the  impulse  of  a  vaguo  terror.    She 


AT  TUE  FOOT  OF  TJU8  LAMP'rOST  BLADB-O  -(iS.UBS  IMOHSD  UP. 


20 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


did  not  cry ;  it  was  not  often  now  that  she  call- 
ed upon  the  well  of  tender  feelings  where  tears 
lay;  but  she  was  terrified.  There  was  not  a 
star  in  the  sky  to  comfort  her.  She  was  in  deep 
darkness,  body  and  soul.  How  many  others  are 
there  at  this  present  moment  in  the  same  terrible 
condition  ? 

Too  full  of  fear  to  stand  upright,  she  crept 
along  the  ground  slowly,  feeling  her  way  by  the 
walls,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  gather 
fresh  courage,  at  which  time  she  tried  to  shut 
out  her  fears  by  cowering  close  to  the  flag-stones 
and  hiding  her  face  in  her  ragged  frock.  She 
had  a  purpose  in  view.  She  had  thought  of  a 
refuge  where  she  would  find  some  relief  from  the 
terrible  shadows.  Toward  that  refuge  she  was 
creeping  now.  It  was  a  long,  long  time  before 
she  reached  her  haven — a  crazy  old  lamp-post, 
the  dim  light  of  which  was  in  keeping  with  the 
general  poverty  of  its  surroundings.  At  the  foot 
of  this  lamp-post,  clasping  it  as  if  it  were  the 
symbol  of  a  sacred  refuge,  Blade-o'-Grass  look- 
ed up  at  the  light  in  an  agony  of  speechless 
gratitude,  and  then,  wearied  almost  to  a  state 
of  unconsciousness,  coiled  herself  up  into  a  ball, 
like  a  hedgehog,  and  soon  was  fust  asleep. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   LIFE. 

What  followed  ?  Remorseless  Time  pursued 
his  way,  and  the  minutes,  light  to  some,  heavy 
to  some,  leaving  in  their  track  a  train  of  woe 
and  joy  and  grief  and  happiness ;  the  leaden 
minutes,  the  golden  minutes,  flew  by  until  day- 
light came  and  woke  the  sleeping  child.  Un- 
washed— but  that  was  her  chronic  condition, 
and  did  not  affect  her — forlorn,  uncared-for, 
331ade-o'-Grass  looked  round  upon  her  world, 
and  rubbed  her  eyes,  and  yawned ;  then,  after  a 
time,  rose  to  her  feet,  and  cast  quick,  eager 
glances  about  her.  The  tiger  in  her  stomach 
was  awake  and  stirring,  and  Blade-o'-Grass  had 
no  food  to  give  it  to  satisfy  its  cravings.  She 
prowled  up  and  down,  and  round  and  about  the 
dirty  courts,  in  search  of  something  to  eat ;  any 
thing  would  have  more  than  contented  her — 
mouldy  crust,  refuse  food;  but  the  stones  of 
Stoney  Alley  and  its  fellows  were  merciless,  and 
no  manna  fell  from  heaveq  to  bless  the  famished 
child.  She  would  have  puzzled  the  wisest  phi- 
losopher in  social  problems  if  he  were  not  utterly 
blinded  by  theory ;  for,  looking  at  her  from  every 
aspect,  and  taking  into  account  not  only  that  she 
was  endowed  with  mental,  moral,  and  physical 
faculties,  but  that  she  was  a  human  being  with 
a  soul  "to  be  saved,"  he  could  have  produced 


but  one  result  from  her — a  yearning  for  food. 
He  could  have  struck  no  other  kind  of  fire  from 
out  of  this  piece  of  flint.  What  resemblance 
did  Blade-o'-Grass  bear  to  that  poetical  image 
which  declared  her  to  be  noble  in  reason,  infinite 
in  faculty,  express  and  admirable  in  form  and 
bearing — like  an  angel  in  action,  like  a  god  in  ap- 
prehension ?  The  beauty  of  the  world,  the  par- 
agon of  animals !  Perhaps  it  will  be  best  for  us 
not  to  examine  too  curiously,  for  there  is  shame 
in  the  picture  of  this  child-girl  prowling  about 
for  food.  Poor  Blade-o'-Grass !  with  every  min- 
ute the  tiger  in  her  stomach  grew  more  rabid, 
and  tore  at  her  vitals  tigeiishly.  In  the  after- 
noon she  found  a  rotten  apple  in  the  gutter,  and 
she  stooped  and  picked  it  up,  joy  glistening  in 
her  eyes.  It  was  a  large  apple,  fortunately,  and 
she  devoured  it  eagerly,  and  afterward  chewed 
the  stalk.  That  was  all  the  food  she  got  that 
day ;  and  when  night  came,  and  she  had  watched 
the  lights  out,  she  coiled  herself  up  into  a  ball 
by  the  side  of  her  lamp-post  again  and  slept, 
and  awoke  in  the  morning  sick  with  craving. 
Yesterday's  experience  whispered  to  her  not  to 
look  about  for  food  in  Stoney  Alley ;  and  she 
walked  with  painful  steps  into  the  wider  thor- 
oughfare, and  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  to  re- 
cover herself  from  her  astonishment  at  the  vast 
world  in  which  she  found  herself.  She  would 
have  been  content  to  stop  there  all  the  day,  but 
that  the  tiger  cried  for  food,  and  she  cried  for 
food  in  sympathy  with  the  tiger.  Keeping  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  never  once  rais- 
ing her  pitiful  face  to  the  faces  that  flashed  past 
her  hither  and  thither,  she  faltered  onward  for  a 
hundred  yards  or  so,  and  then,  in  a  frightened 
manner,  retraced  her  steps  so  that  she  should 
not  lose  herself.  "Give  rae  food  I"  cried  the 
tiger,  and  "  Give  me  food!"  cried  Blade-o'-Grass, 
from  the  innermost  depths  of  her  soul.  At  about 
ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  her  cry  was  answered ; 
she  saw  a  cats'-meat  man  with  a  basketful  of 
skewered  meat  hanging  upon  his  arm.  Instinct- 
ively she  followed  him,  and  watched  the  cats 
running  to  the  doors  at  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
and  waiting  with  arched  backs  and  dilating  eyes 
for  his  approach.  Blade-o'-Grass  wished  with 
all  her  heart  and  soul  that  she  were  a  cat,  so  that 
she  might  receive  her  portion  upon  a  skewer"; 
but  no  such  happiness  was  hers.  She  followed 
the  man  wistfully  and  hungeringly,  until  he 
stopped  at  the  door  of  a  house  where  there  were 
evidently  arrears  of  account  to  be  settled.  He 
placed  his  basket  upon  the  door-step,  and  went 
into  the  passage  to  give  some  change  to  the 
woman,  of  the  house.  Here  was  an  opportuni- 
ty for  Blade-o'-Grass.     She  crept  stealthily  and 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


21 


fearfully  toward  the  basket,  and,  snatching  up 
two  portions  of  cats'-meat,  ran  for  her  life,  with 
her  stolen  food  hidden  in  her  tattered  frock — ran 
until  she  reached  Stoney  Alley,  where  she  sank 
to  the  ground  with  her  heart  leaping  at  her 
throat,  and  where,  after  recovering  her  breath, 
she  devoured  her  ill-gotten  meat  with  unbounded 
satisfaction.  She  had  no  idea  that  she  had  done 
a  wrong  thing.  She  was  hungry,  and  had  sim- 
ply taken  food  when  the  opportunity  presented 
itself.  The  fear  by  which  she  had  been  impress- 
ed had  not  sprung  from  any  moral  sense,  but 
partly  from  the  thought  that  the  man  would 
hurt  her  if  he  caught  her  taking  his  property, 
and  partly  from  the  thought  (more  agonizing 
than  the  other)  that  she  might  be  prevented 
from  carrying  out  her  design.  The  next  day 
she  watched  for  and  followed  the  cats'-meat  man 
again,  and  again  was  successful  in  obtaining  a 
meal,  and  so  on  for  a  day  or  two  afterward. 
But  the  food  was  not  ovemice,  and  the  tiger 
whispered  to  her  that  a  change  would  be  agree- 
able. Success  made  her  bold,  and  she  looked 
about  her  for  other  prey.  Her  first  venture, 
after  the  cats'-meat  man  lost  her  patronage,  was 
an  old  woman  who  kept  an  apple  stall,  and  who 
went  to  sleep  as  regularly  as  clock-work  every 
afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  and  ^voke  at  five.  But 
even  in  her  sleep  this  old  apple-woman  seemed 
to  be  wary,  and  now  and  then  would  mumble 
out,  with  drowsy  energy,  "Ah,  would  yer?  I 
sees  yer !"  as  if  the  knowledge  that  she  was  sur- 
rounded by  suspicious  characters  whose  mouths 
watered  for  her  fruit  had  eaten  into  her  soul. 
But  as  these  exclamations  to  terrify  poachers 
were  mumbled  out  when  the  old  woman  really 
was  in  an  unconscious  state,  she  fell  an  easy 
victim  to  Blade-o'-Grass.  She  was  a  great  treas- 
ure to  the  little  girl,  for  she  dealt  in  nuts  and 
oranges  as  well  as  apples.  Then  there  was  a 
woman  who  sold  a  kind  of  cake  designated 
"jumbles" — a  wonderful  luxury,  price  four  a 
penny.  She  also  fell  a  victim,  and  between  one 
and  another  Blade-o'-Grass  managed  to  pick  up 
a  precarious  living,  and  in  a  few  months  became 
as  nimble  and  expert  a  little  thief  as  the  sharp- 
est policeman  would  wish  to  make  an  example 
of.  She  was  found  out,  of  course,  sometimes, 
and  was  cuffed  and  beaten ;  but  she  was  never 
given  in  charge.  The  persons  from  whom  she 
stole  seemed  to  be  aware  of  the  hapless  condi- 
tion of  the  child,  and  had  mercy  upon  her  ;  in- 
deed, many  of  them  had  at  one  time  or  another 
of  their  lives  kno>vn  what  it  was  to  suffer  the 
pangs  of  hunger. 

Incredible  as  it  may  sound,  Blade-o'-Grass 
still  had  one  friend  left.     His  name  was  Tom 


j  Beadle.  He  was  some  five  years  older  than 
I  Blade-o'-Grass,  but  looked  so  delicate  and  sick- 
ly, and  was  of  such  small  proportions,  that  they 
might  have  been  taken  for  pretty  nearly  the  same 
age.  DeUcate  and  sickly  as  he  looked,  he  was 
as  sharp  as  a  weasel.  He  had  a  mother  and  a 
father,  who,  when  they  were  not  in  prison,  lived 
in  Stoney  Alley;  but  they,  being  a  drunken 
and  dissolute  pair,  did  not  trouble  themselves 
about  their  son.  So  he  had  to  shift  for  him- 
self, and  in  course  of  time  became  cunningest  of 
the  cunning.  Between  him  and  Blade-o'-Grass 
there  had  grown  a  closer  intimacy  than  she  had 
contracted  with  any  other  of  her  associates,  and 
whenever  they  met  they  stopped  to  have  a  chat. 
Blade-o'-Grass  had  a  genuine  affection  for  him, 
for  he  had  often  given  her  a  copper,  and  quite  as 
often  had  shared  his  meal  with  her. 

A  few  months  after  the  change  for  the  worse 
in  the  prospects  of  Blade-o'-Grass,  Tom  Beadle, 
lounging  about  in  an  idle  humor,  saw  her  sitting 
on  the  curb-stone,  with  her  eyes  fixed  ujjon  the 
old  apple-woman,  who  had  begun  to  nod.  Tliere 
was  something  m  the  gaze  of  Blade-o'-Grass 
that  attracted  Tom  Beadle's  attention,  and  he 
set  himself  to  watch.  Presently  the  girl  shifted 
a  little  nearer  to  the  fruit  stall — a  little  nearer — 
nearer,  until  she  was  quite  close.  Her  hand 
stole  slowly  toward  the  fruit,  and  a  pear  was 
taken,  then  another.  Tom  Beadle  laughed ;  but 
looked  serious  immediately  afterward,  for  Bbde- 
o'-Grass  was  running  away  as  fast  as  her  legs 
could  carry  her.  Assunng  himself  that  there 
was  no  cause  for  alarm,  Tom  Beadle  ran  after 
her,  and  placed  his  hand  heavily  on  her  shoul- 
der. She  had  heard  the  step  behind  her,  and 
her  heart  almost  leaped  out  of  her  throat ;  but 
when  she  felt  the  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  she 
threw  away  the  stolen  fniit,  and  fell  to  the  ground 
in  an  agony  of  fear. 

"Git  up,  you  little  fool,"  exclaimed  Tom 
Beadle.  "  What  are  you  frightened  at  ?"  Be- 
fore he  said  this,  however,  he  picked  up  the 
pears  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

"Oh, Tom!"  cried  Blade-o'-Grass,  the  famil- 
iar tones  falling  upon  her  cars  like  sweetest  mu- 
sic;  "I  thought  it  was  somebody  after  me." 

Then  Tom  told  her  that  he  ran  after  her  to 
stop  her  running,  and  instructed  her  that  it  was 
the  very  worst  of  policy,  after  she  had  "prigged" 
any  thing,  to  run  away  when  nobody  was  looking. 
And  this  was  the  first  practical  lesson  in  morals 
that  Blade-o'-Grass  had  received. 

"  But,  I  say,  Bladergrass,"  observed  Tom,  "  I 
didn't  know  as  you'd  taken  to  prig. " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Tom.  The  tiger's  always  at 
me." 


22 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


Tom  implicitly  believed  in  the  tiger  stoiy. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Tom;  "only 
take  care — and  don't  you  run  away  agin  when 
nobody's  a-lookin'." 

Months  passed,  and  Blade-o'-Grass  lived  lit- 
erally from  hand  to  mouth.  But  times  grew 
Very  dull ;  her  hunting-ground  was  nearly  work- 
ed out,  and  she  was  more  often  hungry  than 
not.  One  day  she  hadn't  been  able  to  pick  up 
a  morsel  of  food,  and  had  had  insuiSicient  for 
many  previous  days.  The  day  before  she  had 
had  but  one  scanty  meal,  so  that  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  her  miserable  condition.  Her 
guardian  angel,  Tom  Beadle,  discovered  her 
crouching  against  a  wall,  with  fear  and  despair 
in  her  face  and  eyes.  He  knew  well  enougli 
Avhat  w^as  the  matter,  but  he  asked  her,  for 
form's  sake,  and  she  returned  liim  the  usual 
answer,  while  the  large  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks  into  her  mouth. 

It  so  happened  that  Tom  Beadle  had  been  out 
of  luck  that  day.  He  hadn't  a  copper  in  his 
pocket.  He  felt  about  for  one,  nevertheless, 
and  finding  none,  whistled— curiously  enough, 
the  "Rogue's  March" — more  in  perplexity  than 
from  surprise. 

"Ain't  yer  had  any  think  to  eat,  Blader- 
grass  ?" 

"Not  a  blessed  bite,"  was  the  answer. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  the  evening ,  there 
were  at  least  a  couple  of  hours  to  sunset.  An 
inspiration  fell  upon  Tom  Beadle,  and  his  coun- 
tenance brightened. 

"  Come  along  o'  me,"  he  said. 

Blade-o'-Grass  placed  her  hand  unhesitatingly 
in  his,  and  they  walked  toward  the  wealthier 
part  of  the  City,  until  they  came  to  a  large 
space  suiTounded  by  great  stone  buildings.  In 
the  centre  of  the  space  was  a  statue.  Blade-o'- 
Grass  had  never  been  so  far  from  her  native 
place  as  this.  The  crowds  of  people  hurrying 
hither  and  thither,  as  if  a  moment's  hesitation 
would  produce  a  fatal  result,  the  apparently 
intei*minable  strings  of  carts  and  cabs  and  wag- 
ons and  omnibuses  issuing  from  half  a  dozen 
thoroughfares,  and  so  filling  the  roads  with  mov- 
ing lines  and  curves  and  angles  that  it  seemed 
to  be  nothing  less  than  miraculous  how  a  gen- 
eral and  disastrous  crash  was  avoided,  utterly 
bewildered  little  Blade-o'-Grass,  and  caused  her 
for  a  moment  to  be  oblivious  of  the  cravings  of 
tiie  tiger  in  her  stomach. 

"Now,  look  'ere,  Bladergrass,"  whispered 
Tom  Beadle;  "you  keep  tight  'old  of  my  'and  ; 
if  any  body  arks  yer,  I'm  yer  brother  a-dyin'  of 
consumption.     I'm  a-dyin'  by  inches,  I  am." 

Forthwith  he  called  into  his  face  such  an  ex- 


pression of  utter,  helpless  woe  and  misery,  that 
Blade-o'-Grass  cried  out  in  terror, 

"Oh,  what's  up,  Tom?  Oh,  don't,  Tom, 
don't!"  really  believing  that  her  companion  had 
been  suddenly  stricken. 

"  Don't  be  stoopid !"  remonstrated  Tom,  smil- 
ing at  her  to  reassure  her,  and  then  resuming 
his  woe-begone  expression ;  ' '  I'm  only  a-sham- 
min'." 

With  that  he  sank  upon  the  bottom  of  a  grand 
flight  of  stone  steps,  dragging  Blade-o'-Grass 
down  beside  him.  There  they  remained,  silent, 
for  a  few  moniients,  and  perhaps  one  in  a  hun- 
dred of  the  eager,  bustling  throng  turned  to  give 
the  strange  pair  a  second  glance;  but  before 
sympathy  had  time  to  assume  practical  expres- 
sion, a  policeman  came  up  to  them  and  bade 
them  move  on.  Tom  rose  to  his  feet,  wearily 
and  painfully,  and  slowly  moved  away ;  a  snail 
in  its  last  minutes  of  life  could  scarcely  have 
moved  more  slowly,  if  it  had  moved  at  all.  He 
took  good  care  to  keep  tight  hold  of  the  hand  of 
Blade-o'-Grass,  lest  she  should  be  pushed  from 
him  and  be  lost  in  the  crowd.  A  notable  con- 
trast were  these  two  outcasts  —  she,  notwith- 
standing her  fright  and  the  pangs  of  hunger  by 
which  she  was  tormented,  strong-limbed  and 
sturdy  for  her  age ;  and  he,  drooping,  tottering, 
with  a  death- look  upon  his  face,  as  if  every  mo- 
ment would  be  his  last.  You  would  have  sup- 
posed that  his  mind  was  a  blank  to  all  but  de- 
spair, and  that  he  was  praying  for  death ;  but 
the  cunning  and  hypocrisy  of  Tom  Beadle  were 
not  to  be  measured  by  an  ordinary  standard. 
He  was  as  wide  awake  as  a  weasel,  and  although 
his  eyes  were  to  the  ground,  he  saw  every  thing 
that  surged  around  him,  and  was  as  ready  to 
take  advantage  of  an  opportunity  as  the  sliai*pest 
rascal  in  London.  As  he  and  his  companion 
made  their  way  through  the  busy  throng,  they 
attracted  the  attention  of  two  men — both  of 
them  elderly  men,  of  some  sixty  years  of  ago ; 
one,  well  dressed,  with  a  bright  eye  and  a  be- 
nevolent face;  the  other,  poorly  but  not  shab- 
bily dressed,  and  with  a  face  out  of  which  every 
drop  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  seemed  to 
have  been  squeezed  when  he  was  a  young  man. 
When  he  looked  at  you,  it  appeared  as  if  you 
were  undergoing  the  scrutiny  of  two  men ;  for 
one  of  his  eyes  had  a  dreadfully  fixed  and  glassy 
stare  in  it,  and  the  other  might  have  been  on 
fire,  it  was  so  fiercely  watchful. 

Now,  overpowered  as  Tom  Beadle  might  have 
been  supposed  to  be  in  his  own  special  ills  and 
cares,  he  saw  both  these  men,  as  he  saw  every 
thing  else  about  him,  and  a  sly  gleam  of  recog- 
nition passed  from  his  eyes  to  the  fiice  of  the 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


odd-looking  and  poorly  dressed  stranger}  it 
met  with  no  response,  however.  The  next  mo- 
ment Tom  raised  his  white,  imploring  face  to 
that  of  the  better-dressed  man,  whose  tender 
heart  was  stirred  by  pity  at  the  mute  appeal. 
He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  but  seemed  to 
be  restrained  fiom  giving ;  some  impulse  with- 
in him  whispered,  "Don't!"  while  his  heart 
prompted  him  to  give.  But  the  struggle  was 
not  df  long  duration.  The  words,  "  Indiscrimi- 
nate charity  again,"  fell  from  his  lips,  and  look- 
ing round  cautiously,  as  if  he  were  .about  to 
commit  a  felony,  he  hastily  approached  close  to 
the  two  children,  and,  with  an  air  of  guilt, 
slipped  a  shilling  in  Tom  Beadle's  hand.  After 
which  desperate  deed  he  turned  to  fly  from  the 
spot,  when  he  saw  something  in  the  face  of  the 
odd-looking  man  (who  had  been  watching  the 
comedy  with  curious  interest)  which  made  him 
first  doubtful,  then  angry.  Although  they  were 
strangers,  he  was  impelled  to  speak,  and  his 
kind  nature  made  him  speak  in  a  polite  tone. 

"Dreadful  sight.  Sir,  dreadful  sight," he  said, 
pointing  to  the  creeping  forms  of  Tom  Beadle 
and  Blade-o'-Grass.  "A  penny  can't  be  thrown 
away  there,  eh  ?" 

The  odd-looking  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
The  shrug  conveyed  to  the  benevolent  stranger 
this  meaning:  "You  are  an  imbecile;  you  are 
an  old  fool ;  you  are  not  fit  to  be  trusted  alone." 
It  was  the  most  expressive  of  shrugs. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  to  say  I've  been  imposed 
upon ! "  exclaimed  the  benevolent  stranger,  hotly. 

The  odd-looking  man  chuckled  enjoyably,  and 
perked  up  his  head  at  the  questioner  in  curiosity, 
as  a  magpie  with  its  eye  in  a  blaze  might  have 
done.  But  he  said  nothing.  His  silence  exas 
perated  the  benevolent  alms-giver,  who  exclaim 
ed,  "You've  no  humanity,  Sir — no  humanity;" 
and  turned  on  his  heel.  But  turned  round  again 
immediately  and  said,  "  I've  no  right  to  say  that, 
Sir — no  right,  and  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  d'ye 
mean  to  tell  me  that  that  lad  is  an  impostor, 
Sir  ?  If  you  do,  I  deny  it,  Sir ;  I  deny  it !  D'ye 
mean  to  say  that  I've  been  taken  in,  and  that 
those  two  children  are  not — not  hungry.  Sir?" 

Some  words  seemed  to  be  rising  to  the  odd- 
looking  man's  lips,  but  he  restrained  the  utter- 
ance of  them,  and  closed  his  lips  with  a  snap. 
He  touched  his  shabby  cap  with  an  air  of  amuse- 
ment, and  turned  away,  chuckling  quietly ;  and 
the  next  minute  the  two  men  were  struggling  in 
diflerent  directions  with  the  human  tide  that 
spread  itself  over  all  the  city. 

In  the  mean  time,  Tom  Beadle,  keeping  up  the 
fiction  of  "dyin'  by  inches,"  crept  slowly  away. 
He  had  not  seen  the  coin  which  had  been  slipped 


into  his  hand,  but  he  knew  well  enough  by  the 
feel  that  it  was  a  shilling.  "A  regular  slice  o' 
luck,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  beneath  his  breath. 
When  they  had  crept  on  some  fifty  yards,  he 
quickened  his  steps,  and  Blade-o'-Grass  tried  to 
keep  up  with  him.  But  all  at  once  her  hands 
grew  quite  cold,  and  a  strong  trembling  took 
possession  of  her. 

"Come  along,  Bladergrass,"  urged  Tom,  in 
his  anxiety  to  get  safely  away ;  ' '  'ow  you  creep ! " 

The  child  made  another  effort,  but,  a3  if  by 
magic,  the  streets  and  the  roar  in  them  vanished 
from  her  sight  and  hearing,  and  she  would  have 
fallen  to  the  ground  but  for  Tom's  arm  thrown 
promptly  round  her  poor  fainting  form. 

Near  to  them  was  a  quiet  court — so  still  and 
peaceful  that  it -might  have  hidden  in  a  country 
place  where  Nature  was  queen — and  Tom  Bea- 
dle, who  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground,  bore  lier 
thither.  His  heart  grew  cold  as  he  gazed  upon 
her  white  face. 

"I  wish  I  may  die,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
in  a  troubled  voice,  "if  she  don't  look  as  if  she 
was  dead.    Bladergrass !  Bladergrass ! "  he  called. 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Not  a  soul  was  near 
them.  Had  it  not  been  that  he  liked  the  child, 
and  that,  little  villain  as  he  was,  he  had  some 
humanity  in  him — for  her  at  least— he  would 
have  run  away.  He  stood  quiet  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, debating  within  himself  what  he  had  best 
do.  He  knelt  over  her,  and  put  his  lips  to  hers, 
and  >yhispered,  coaxingly,"  Come  along,  Blader- 
grass. Don't  be  a  little  fool.  Open  your  eyes, 
and  call  Tom." 

The  warmth  of  his  face  and  lips  restored  her 
to  consciousness.  She  munnured,  "Don't — 
don't !    Let  me  be !" 

"  What's  the  matter,  Bladergrass  ?"  he  whis- 
pered.   "  It's  me — ^Tom !    Don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"Oh,  let  me  be,  Tom  I"  implored  Blade-o'- 
Grass.  "Let  me  be!  The  tiger's  a-eatin'  the 
inside  out  o'  me,  and  I'm  a-dyin'." 

She  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  the  sense  of 
infinite  peace  that  stole  upon  her,  as  she  lay  in 
this  quiet  court,  was  like  heaven  to  her,  after  the 
wild  roar  of  steps  and  sounds  in  which  a  little 
while  since  she  had  been  ingulfed.  Had  she 
died  at  that  moment,  it  would  have  been  happier 
for  her ;  but  at  whose  door  could  her  death  have 
been  laid  ? 

Tom  Beadle,  whispering  hurriedly  and  anx- 
iously, and  certainly  quite  superfluously,  "Lay 
still,  Bladergrass!  Ill  be  back  in  a  minute,'- 
ran  off  to  buy  food,  and  soon  returned  with  it. 
He  had  a  little  difficulty  in  rousing  her,  but  when 
she  began  to  taste  the  food,  and,  opening  her  eye«, 
saw  the  store  which  Tom  had  brought,  she  tore 


24 


BLADE -O- GRASS. 


"he  laughed  and  danced,  to  the  admiration  of  blade-o'-grass.* 


at  it  almost  deliriously,  crying  out  of  thankful- 
ness as  she  ate.  Tom  was  sufficiently  rewarded 
by  seeing  the  color  return  to  her  cheeks ;  before 
long  Blade-o'-Grass  was  herself  again,  and  was 
laughing  with  Tom. 

"  But  I  thought  you  was  a-dyin',  Bladergrass, " 
said  Tom,  somewhat  solemnly,  in  the  midst  of 
the  merriment. 

"No,  it  was  you  that  was  a-dyin',  Tom!" 
exclaimed  Blade-o'-Grass,  clapping  her  hands. 
*' A-dyin'  by  inches,  you  know!" 

Gratified  vanity  gleamed  in  Tom  Beadle's  eyes, 


and  when  Blade-o'-Grass  added,  "But,  oh,  Tom, 
how  you  frightened  me  at  first !"  his  triumph  was 
complete,  and  he  enjoyed  an  artist's  sweetest 
pleasure.  Then  he  gloated  over  the  imposition 
he  had  practiced  upon  the  benevolent  stranger, 
and  cried  in  glee, 

"  Wasn't  he  green,  Bladergrass  ?  He  thought 
I  was  dyin'  by  inches,  as  well  as  you.  Oh,  oh, 
oh  !"and  laughed  and  danced,  to  the  admiration 
of  Blade-o'-Grass,  without  feeling  a  particle  of 
gratitude  for  the  benevolent  instinct  which  had 
saved  his  companion  from  starvation. 


BLADE.  0'- GRASS. 


25 


After  this  fashion  did  Blade-o'-Grass  learn 
Jife's  lessons,  and  learn  to  fight  its  battles.  De- 
prived of  wholesome  teaching  and  wholesome 
example ,  believing,  from  very  necessity,  that 
bad  was  good ;  without  any  knowledge  of  God 
and  Ilis  infinite  goodness,  she,  almost  a  baby- 
child,  went  out  into  the  world,  in  obedience  to 
the  law  of  nature,  in  search  of  food.  A  slice  of 
bread-and-butter  was  more  to  her  than  all  the 
virtues,  the  exercise  of  which,  as  we  are  taught, 
bestows  the  light  of  eternal  happiness.  And  yet, 
if  earaest  men  are  to  be  believed,  and  if  there 
be  truth  in  newspaper  columns,  the  vast  ma- 
chinery around  her  was  quick  with  sympathy  for 
her,  as  one  of  a  class  whom  it  is  man's  duty  to 
lift  from  the  dust.  Such  struggles  for  the  amel- 
ioration (fine  word!)  of  the  human  race  were 
being  made  by  earnest  natures  that  it  was 
among  the  most  awful  mysteries  of  the  time 
how  Blade-o'-Grass  was  allowed  to  grow  up  in 
the  ignorance  which  deprives  crime  of  responsi- 
bility, how  she  was  forced  to  be  dead  to  the 
knowledge  of  virtue ,  how  she  was  compelled  to 
earn  the  condemnation  of  men,  and  to  make  sor- 
rowful the  heart  of  the  Supreme ! 


MR.  MERRYWHISTLE  RELIEVES  HIMSELF  OX  THE 
SUBJECT  OF   INDISCRIMINATE  CHARITY. 

The  name  of  the  man  who  gave  Tom  Beadle 
the  shilling  Avas  Merrywhistle.  He  was  a  bach- 
elor, and  he  lived  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  City, 
in  Buttercup  Square,  next  door  to  his  best 
friends,  the  Silvers.  Although  Buttercup  Square 
was  in  the  east  of  the  City,  where  the  greatest 
poverty  is  to  be  found,  and  where  people  crowd 
upon  each  other  unhealthfully,  it  was  as  pretty 
and  comfortable  a  square  as  could  be  found  any 
where,  and  you  might  live  in  any  house  in  it 
and  foncy  yourself  in  the  country,  when  you 
looked  out  of  window.  The  trees  in  the  square 
were  full  of  birds'  nests,  and  the  singing  of  the 
birds  of  a  summer  morning  was  very  sweet  to 
the  ear. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  had  no  trade  or  profession. 
When  the  last  census  was  taken,  and  the  paper 
was  given  to  him  to  fill  in,  he  set  himself  down 
as  "  Nothing  Particular  j"  and  this  eccentric  def- 
inition of  himself  coming  under  the  eyes  of  his 
landlady — who,  like  every  other  landlady,  was 
mighty  curious  about  the  age,  religion,  and  oc- 
cupation of  her  lodgers,  and  whether  they  were 
single,  widowed,  or  divorced  men — was  retailed 
by  her  to  her  friends.  As  a  necessary  conse- 
quence, her  friends  retailed  the  information  to  '  goodness 


their  friends ;  and  for  some  littJe  time  afterward 


they  used  to  a 
other,  jocoscl}-. 


of  the  landlady  and  of  each 
Uow  Nothipg  Particular  was 
getting  along,  and  .whether  he  had  lately  done  /' 
Any  thing  Particul^^^^i4  ^  on.  But  i\M 
mildest  of  jokes  soonxmftiMaaty.-aRd' never 
reached  Mr.  Merry  whistle's  ears.  He  had  an 
income  more  than  sufficient  for  his  personal 
wants  i  but  at  the  year's  end  not  a  shilling  re- 
mained of  his  year's  income.  A  pale  face,  a 
look  of  distress,  a  poor  woman  with  a  baby  in 
anns,  a  person  looking  hungrily  in  a  cook-shop 
window — any  one  of  these  sights  was  sufficient 
to  melt  his  benevolent  heart,  and  to  draw  copper 
or  silver  from  his  pocket.  It  was  said  of  him 
that  his  hands  were  always  in  his  pockets — a 
saying  which  was  the  occasion  of  a  piece  of  siir- 
casm,  which  grew  into  a  kind  of  proverb.  A 
lady  resident  of  Buttercup  Square,  whose  hus- 
band was  of  the  parsimonious  breed,  when  speak- 
ing of  Mr.  Merrywhistle's  benevolence,  said,  with 
a  sigh,  "My  husband  is  just  like  Mr.  Merr}-- 
whistlci  his  hands  are  always  in  his  pockets." 
"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  an  ill-natured  friend,  "but 
there  the  similarity  ends.  Your  husband's  hands 
never  come  out.'"  Which  produced  a  life-long 
breach  between  the  parties. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  was  in  a  very  disturbed 
mood  this  evening.  He  was  haunted  by  the 
face  of  the  old  man  who  had  been  amused  be- 
cause he  had  given  a  poor  child  a  shilling.  The 
thought  of  this  old  man  proved  the  most  obsti- 
nate of  tenants  to  Mr.  Merrywhistle;  having 
got  into  his  mind,  it  refused  to  be  dislodged. 
He  had  never  seen  this  man  before,  and  here, 
in  the  most  unaccountable  manner,  was  he  being 
haunted  and  distressed  by  a  face  which  presented 
itself  to  his  imagination  with  a  mocking  expres- 
sion upon  it,  because  he  had  been  guilty  of  a 
charitable  act.  "  I  should  like  to  meet  him 
again,"  said  Mr.  Merrywhistle  to  himself,  "  I'd 
talk  to  him !"  Which  mild  determination,  hot- 
ly expressed,  was  intended  to  convey  an  exceed- 
ingly severe  meaning.  As  he  could  not  dislodge 
the  thought  of  the  man  from  his  mind,  Mr. 
Merr}-whistle  resolved  to  go  to  his  friends  next 
door,  the  Silvers,  and  take  tea  with  them.  He 
went  in,  and  found  them,  as  he  expected,  just 
sitting  down  to  tea.  Only  two  of  them,  hus- 
band and  wife. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Sil- 
ver to  him.  Her  voice  might  surely  have  sug- 
gested her  name,  it  was  so  mild  and  gentle.  But 
every  thing  about  her  was  the  same.  Her  dress, 
her  quiet  manner,  her  delicate  face,  her  hands, 
her  eyes,  where  purity  dwelt,  breathed  peace  and 
She  and  her  sisters  (and  there  are 


26 


BLADE -O'-GB  ASS. 


many,  thank  God !)  are  the  human  pearls  of  the 
world  which  is  so  often  called  "  erring." 

"How  are  the  youngsters?"  asked  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle,  stirring  his  tea. 

*'A11  well,"  answered  Mr.  Silver;  "you'll 
stay  and  see  th«m  ?" 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  nodded,  and  proceeded  with 
his  tea.  The  meal  being  nearly  over,  Mrs.  Silver 
said,  "Now,  friend,  tell  us  your  trouble." 

"You  see  it  in  my  face  ?"  responded  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle. 

"Yes ;  I  saw  it  when  you  entered." 

"  You  have  the  gift  of  divination." 

"  Say,  the  gift  of  sympathy  for  those  I  love." 

Mr.  Merry  whistle  held  out  his  hand,  and  she 
grasped  it  cordially.  Then  he  told  them  of  the 
occmi'ence  that  took  place  on  the  Royal  Ex- 
change, and  of  the  singular  manner  in  which  he 
was  haunted  by  the  mocking  face  of  the  old  man 
who  had  watched  him. 

"You  have  an  instinct,  perhaps,"  said  Mrs. 
Silver,  "  that  he  was  one  of  the  men  who  might 
have  preached,  at  you,  if  he  had  had  the  oppor- 
tunity, against  indiscriminate  charity  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,  I  really 
don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Merry  whistle,  excited- 
ly. "I  think  he  rather  enjoyed  it ;  he  seemed  to 
look  upon  it  as  an  amusing  exhibition,  for  he  Avas 
almost  convulsed  by  laughter.  Laughter!  It 
wasn't  laughter.  It  was  a  series  of  demoniac 
chuckles,  that's  what  it  was — demoniac  chuckles. 
But  I  can't  exactly  describe  what  it  was  that  set 
my  blood  boiling.  It  wasn't  his  demoniac  chuck- 
ling alone ;  it  was  every  thiijg  about  him — his 
manner,  his  expression,  his  extraordinary  eyes, 
one  of  which  looked  like  the  eye  of  an  infuriated 
bull,  as  if  it  were  half  inclined  to  fly  out  of  its 
head  at  you,  and  the  other  as  if  it  were  the  right- 
ful property  of  tlie  meekest  and  mildest  of  baa- 
lambs. Then  his  eyebrows — lapping  over  as  if 
they  Were  precipices,  and  as  thick  as  blacking- 
brushes.  Then  his  face,  like  a  little  sour  and 
withered  apple.  Your  pro-indiscriminate-char- 
ity men  would  not  have  behaved  as  he  did.  They 
would  have  asked  me.  How  dare  I— how  dare  I  ? 
— yes,  that  is  what  they  would  have  said— how 
dare  I  encourage  pauperism  by  giving  money  to 
little  boys  and  girls  and  ragged  men  and  women, 
whom  I  had  never  seen  in  my  life  before,  whom 
I  had  never  heard  of  in  my  life  before  ?  This 
fellow  wasn't  one  of  them.  No,  no,  no  ;  I 
say  he  wasn't  one  of  them.  I  wouldn't  swear 
til  at  he  wasn't  drunk— no,  I  won't  say  that ; 
tipsy,  perhaps  —  no,  not  that  either.  Unchari- 
table of  me— very.  Don't  laugh  at  me.  You 
wouldn't  have  laughed  at  the  poor  little  boy  if 
you  had  seen  him." 


"  I  am  sure  we  should  not." 

"  That's  like  me  again,"  cried  the  impetuous 
old  bachelor,  remorsefully;  "throwing  in  the 
teeth  of  my  best  friends  an  accusation  of  inhu- 
manity— yes,  inhumanity — positive  inhumanity. 
Forgive  me  ;  I  am  truly  soriy.  But  that  indis- 
criminate-charity question  cropped  up  again  to- 
day, and  that,  as  Avell  as  this  affair,  has  set  my 
nerves  in  a  jingle.  A  gentleman  called  upon  me 
this  morning,  and  asked  me  for  a  subscription 
toward  the  funds  of  an  institution — a  worthy  in- 
stitution, as  I  believe.  I  hadn't  much  to  spare 
— I  am  so  selfishly  extravagant  that  my  purse  is 
always  low — and  I  gave  him  half  a  sovereign. 
He  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  and  at  me  reproach- 
fully. *I  was  given  to  understand,'  he  said,  in 
the  meekest  of  voices — so  meek,  indeed,  that  I 
could  not  possibly  take  offense — '  I  was  given  to 
understand  that  from  Mr.  Meriywhistle,  and  in 
aid  of  such  an  institution  as  ours,  I  should  have 
received  a  much  larger  contribution.' " 

"That  savored  of  impertinence,"  observed  Mr. 
Silver. 

"I  dare  say.  Silver;  I  dare  say;  Another 
man  might  have  thought  so ;  but  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly be  angry  with  him,  his  manner  was  so 
humble — reproachfully  humble.  I  explained  to 
him  that  at  present  I  couldn't  afford  more,  and 
that,  somehow  or  other,  my  money  melted  away 
most  sui-prisingly.  *I  hope,  Sir,'  he  then  said, 
'  that  what  I  was  told  of  you  is  not  true,  and 
that  you  are  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  away 
money  indiscriminately.'  I  could  not  deny  it — 
no,  indeed,  I  could  not  deny  it;  and  I  com- 
menced to  say,  hesitatingly  (feeling  very  guilty), 
that  now  and  then —  But  he  inteiTupted  me 
with,  *  Now  and  then.  Sir !  now  and  then !  You 
will  pardon  my  saying  so,  Mr.  Meriywhistle,  but 
it  may  not  have  struck  you  before  that  those 
persons  who  give  away  money  indiscriminately 
are  making  criminals  for  us,  are  filling  our  pris- 
ons, are  blowing  a  cold  blast  on  manly  self-en- 
deavor, are  crippling  industry,  are  paying  pre- 
miums to  idleness,  which  is  the  offspring  of  the 
— hem  I'  And  continued  in  this  strain  for  more 
than  five  minutes.  When  he  went  away  my 
hair  stood  on  end,  and  I  felt  as  if  sentence  ought 
to  be  pronounced  upon  me  at  once.  And  here, 
this  very  afternoon,  am  I  caught  again  by  a  piti- 
ful face — you  should  have  seen  it !  I  thought 
the  poor  boy  would  have  died  as  I  looked  at  him, 
and  I  gave  away  a  shilling  indiscriminately. 
Then  comes  this  strange  old  fellow  staring  at 
me,  sneering  at  me,  shrugging  his  shoulders  at 
me,  and  walking  away  with  the  unmistakable 
declaration,  though  he  didn't  declare  it  in  words, 
that  I  wasn't  fit  to  be  trusted.     As  perhaps  I'm 


BLADE -O- GRASS. 


27 


not — as  perhaps  I'm  not."    And  Mr.  Merry- 
whistle  blew  his  nose  violently. 

His  friends  knew  him  too  well  to  interrupt 
him.  The  tea-things  had  been  quietly  cleared 
away  while  he  was  relieving  his  feelings.  He 
had  by  this  time  got  rid  of  a  great  portion  of 
his  excitement,  and  now,  in  his  cooler  mood, 
he  looked  round  and  smiled.  At  that  moment 
a  lad  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age  entered  the 
room.  All  their  countenances  brightened,  as  also 
did  his,  as  he  entered. 

"Well,  Charley,"  said  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  as 
the  lad,  with  frank  face,  stood  before  him, 
"been  knocking  any  thing  into  'pi'  to-day?" 

"No,  Sir,"  replied  Charley;  "I'm  past  that 
now,  I'm  getting  along  handsomely,  the  over- 
seer said." 

"  That's  right,  my  boy ;  that's  right.  You'll 
be  overseer  yourself  some  day." 

Charley  blushed;  his  ambition  had  not  yet 
reached  that  height  of  desire,  and  it  seemed  al- 
most presumption  to  him  to  look  so  far  ahead. 
The  overseer  in  the  printing-office  where  Charley 
was  apprenticed  was  a  great  man  in  Charley's 
eyes ;  his  word  was  law  to  fifty  men  and  boys. 
The  lad  turned  to  Mr.  Silver,  and  said,  in  a 
pleased  tone, 

"A  new  apprentice  came  in  to-day,  and  swept 
out  the  office  instead  of  me." 

"  So  you  are  no  longer  knight  of  the  broom  ?" 

"  No,  Sir,  and  I'm  not  soriy  for  it ;  and 
there's  something  else.  Dick  Trueman,  you 
know.  Sir — " 

"You  told  us,  Charley;  he  was  out  of  his 
time  last  week,  and  they  gave  him  a  frame  as  a 
regular  journeyman." 

"Yes,  Sir ;  and  he  earned  thirty-four  shillings 
last  week — full  wages.  And  what  do  you  think 
he  did  to-day,  Sir?"  And  Charley's  bright  eyes 
sparkled  more  brightly.  These  small  items  of 
office  news  were  of  vast  importance  to  Charley 
— almost  as  important  as  veritable  history.  ' '  But 
you  couldn't  guess,"  he  continued,  in  an  eager 
tone.  "He  asked  for  three  hours'  holiday — 
from  eleven  till  two — and  he  went  out  and 
married!" 

"  Bless  my  scull" exclaimed  Mr.  Merrywhi|(lU 
"  he  can't  be  much  more  than  twenty-one 
of  age." 

"Only  a  few  weeks  more,  Sir.  But  he's  a 
man  now.  Well,  he  came  back  at  two  o'clock, 
in  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  and  a  flower  in  his  coat. 
All  the  men  knew,  directly  they  saw  him,  that 
he  had  asked  for  the  thi-ee  hours'  holiday  to  get 
married  in.  And  they  set  up  such  a  clattering — 
rattling  on  their  cases  with  their  sticks,  and  on 
the  stone  with  the  mallets  and  planers — that  you 


couldn't  hear  your  own  voice  for  five  minutes, 
for  every  one  of  us  likes  Dick  Trueman.  You 
should  have  seen  Dick  blush  when  he  heard  the 
salute !  He  tried  to  make  them  believe  that  he 
didn't  know  what  all  the  clattering  was  about ; 
but  they  kept  it  up  so  long  that  he  was  obliged 
to  come  to  the  stone  and  bob  his  head  at  us.  It 
makes  me  laugh  only  to  think  of  it.  And  then 
the  overseer  shook  hands  with  him,  and  Dick 
sent  for  three  cans  of  beer,  and  all  the  men  drank 
his  health  and  good  luck  to  him."  Charley 
paused  to  take  breath.  The  simple  story,  as  he 
told  it  in  his  eager  way,  was  a  pleasant  story  to 
hear.  Now  came  the  most  important  part  of  it. 
Charley's  eyes  grew  larger  as  he  said,  with  much 
importance,  "I  saw  her." 

"Wlio?"  they  asked. 

"Dick's  wife.  She  was  waiting  at  the  comer 
of  the  street  for  him — and  oh,  she's  Beautiful!" 

"Quite  a  day  of  excitement,  Charley,"  said 
Mr.  Silver. 

"There's  something  more.  Sir." 

"What  is  it,  Charley?" 

"Our  wayz-goose  comes  off  next  week,  Sir." 

"Yes,  Charley." 

"  Only  two  of  the  apprentices  are  asked,  and 
I'm  one  of  them,"  said  Charley,  with  a  ring  of 
pardonable  pride  in  his  voice.     "May  I  go ?" 

"Certainly,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Silver;  and 
Mrs.  Silver  smiled  approvingly,  and  told  Charley 
to  run  and  wash  himself  and  have  tea ;  and  Char- 
ley gave  them  all  a  bright  look,  and  went  out  of 
the  room  as  happy  a  boy  as  any  in  all  London. 

Then  said  Mr.  Merrywhistle, 

"  Charley's  a  good  lad." 

"  He's  our  first  and  eldest,"  said  Mrs.  Silver, 
bringing  forward  a  basket  filled  with  socks  and 
stockings  wanting  repair :  "  he  will  be  a  bright 
man," 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  nodded,  and  they  talked  of 
various  subjects  until  the  sound  of  children's 
happy  voices  interrupted  them.  "  Here  are  our 
youngsters,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands  joyous- 
jir-;-'aiid  as  hespoh^a  troop  of  children  came 
into  the  room. 


^   ]|^.f  i^l^KSK  HOME. 

-Theke  were^fiixfi-orthera,  as  follows : 
The  eldest,  Charles,  the  printer's  apprentice, 
fifteen  years  of  age,  with  a  good  honest  face  and 
a  bright  manner :  the  picture  of  a  happy  boy. 

Then  Marj-,  fourteen  years.  She  looked  older 
than  Charley,  and,  young  as  she  was,  seemed 
to  have  assumed  a  kind  of  matronship  over  the 
younger  branches.     That  the  position  was  a 


28 


BLADE- 0'- GRASS. 


Pv 


pleasing  one  to  her  and  all  of  them  was  evident 
by  the  trustful  looks  that  passed  between  them. 

Then  Richard,  twelve  years,  with  dancing 
eyes,  open  mouth,  and  quick,  impetuous,  spark- 
ling manner:  filled  with  electricity;  never  still 
for  a  moment  together ;  hands,  eyes,  and  every 
limb  imbued  with  restlessness. 

Then  Rachel,  eleven  years ;  with  pale  face 
and  eyes— so  strangely  watchful  of  every  sound 
that  it  might  almost  have  been  supposed  she 
listened  with  them.  She  was  blind,  and,  unless 
her  attentiqp  were  aroused,  stood  like  a  statue 
waiting  for  the  spark  of  life.  / 

Lastly,  Ruth  :  a  full-faced,  round-eyed  child, 
the  prettiest  of  the  group:  slightly  willful,  but 
of  a  most  affectionate  disposition. 

Rachel  inclined  her  head. 

"There's  some  one  here,"  she  said. 

"Who,  my  dear?" asked  Mrs.  Silver,  holding 
up  a  warning  finger  to  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  so  that 
he  should  not  speak. 

Rachel  heard  his  light  breathing. 

"Mr.  Meiry whistle,"  she  said,  and  went  near 
to  him.  He  kissed  her,  and  she  went  back  to 
her  station  by  the  side  of  Ruth. 

hey  were  a  pleasant  bunch  of  human  flowers 
to  gaze  at,  and  so  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Silver  and  Mr. 
Merrywhistle  thought,  for  their  eyes  glistened  at 
the  healthful  sight.  Ruth  and  Rachel  stood  hand 
in  hand,  and  it  was  easily  to  be  seen  that  they 
were  necessary  to  each  other.  But  pleasant  as 
the  children  were  to  the  sight,  a  stranger  would 
have  been  struck  with  amazement  at  their  un- 
likeness  to  one  another.  Brothers  and  sisters 
they  surely  could  not  be,  although  their  presence 
there  and  their  bearing  to  each  other  betokened 
no  less  close  a  relationship.  They  were  not,  in- 
deed, related  by  blood,  neither  to  one  another,  nor 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Silver.  They  were  Mrs.  Silver's 
foundlings — children  of  her  love,  whom  she  had 
taken,  one  by  one,  to  rear  as  her  own,  whom  she 
had  snatched  from  the  lap  of  Destitution. 

Her  marriage  was  one  of  purest  affection,  but 
she  was  ban-en ;  and  after  a  time,  no  children 
coming,  she  felt  a  want  in  her  home.  Her  hus- 
band was  secretary  in  a  sound  assurance  office, 
and  they  possessed  means  to  rear  a  family.  Be- 
fore their  maniage,  they  had  both  dwelt  in  thought 
upon  the  delight  and  pure  pleasure  in  store  for 
them,  and  after  their  marriage  she  saw  baby  faces 
in  her  dreams.  She  mused :  "  My  husband's  son 
will  be  a  good  man,  like  his  father,  and  we  shall 
train  him  well,  and  he  will  be  a  pride  to  us." 
And  he  :  "  In  my  baby  daughter  I  shall  see  my 
wife  from  her  infimcy,  and  I  shall  watch  her 
grow  to  girlhood,  to  pure  womanhood,  and  shall 
take  delight  in  her,  for  that  she  is  ours,  the  off- 


spring of  our  love."  But  these  were  dreams. 
No  children  came;  and  his  wife  still  dreamed 
of  her  shadow-baby,  and  yearned  to  clasp  it  to 
her  bosom.  Years  went  on — they  had  married 
when  they  were  young — and  her  yearning  was 
unsatisfied.  Pain  entered  into  her  life;  a  dull 
envy  tormented  her,  when  she  thought  of  homes 
made  happy  by  children's  prattle,  and  her  tears 
flowed  easily  at  the  sight  of  children.  Her  hus- 
band, engrossed  all  the  day  in  the  duties  and 
anxieties  of  his  business,  had  less  time  to  brood 
over  the  deprivation,  although  he  mourned  it  in 
his  leisure  hours ;  but  she,  being  always  at  home, 
and  having  no  stern  labor  to  divert  her  thoughts 
from  the  sad  channel  in  which  they  seemed  quite 
naturally  to  run,  mourned  with  so  intense  a  grief, 
that  it  took  possession  of  her  soul,  and  threat- 
ened to  make  her  life  utterly  unhappy.  One 
day  he  awoke  to  this,  and  quietly  watched  her, 
saw  the  wistful  looks  she  cast  about  her,  unaware 
that  she  was  being  observed ;  felt  tears  flowing 
from  her  eyes  at  night.  He  questioned  her,  and 
learned  that  her  giief  and  disappointment  were 
eating  into  her  heart ;  that,  strive  as  she  would, 
her  life  was  unhappy  in  its  loneliness  while  he 
was  away,  and  that  the  sweetest  light  of  home 
was  wanting. 

"  I  see  baby  faces  in  my  dreams,"  she  said  to 
him  one  night,  "  and  hear  baby  voices — so  sweet, 
oh,  so  sweet!"  She  pressed  him  in  her  arais, 
and  laid  his  head  upon  her  breast.  "And  when 
I  wake,  I  grieve." 

"  Dear  love,"  he  said,  all  the  tenderness  of  his 
nature  going  out  in  his  words,  "  God  wills  it  so." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  my  love,"  she  answered,  her 
tears  still  flowing. 

"How  can  I  fill  up  the  void  in  her  life?"  he 
thought,  and  gave  expression  to  his  thought. 

Then  she  reproached  herself,  and  asked  his  for- 
giveness, and  cried,  in  remorse,  "  How  could  she, 
how  could  she  grieve  him  with  her  sorrow  ?" 

"I  have  a  right  to  it,"  he  answered.  "It  is 
not  all  yours,  my  dear.  Promise  me,  you  in 
whom  all  my  life's  cares  and  joys  are  bound,  never 
to  conceal  another  of  your  griefs  from  me." 

She  promised,  and  was  somewhat  comforted. 
This  was  within  a  couple  of  months  of  Christmas. 
A  few  nights  before  Christmas,  as  he  was  walk- 
ing home,  having  been  detained  later  than  usual 
at  his  office,  he  came  upon  a  throng  of  people 
talking  eagerly  with  one  another,  and  crowd- 
ing round  something  that  was  hidden  from  his 
sight.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  the  snow  lay 
deep.  He  knew  that  nothing  of  less  import 
than  a  human  cause  could  have  drawn  that  con- 
course together,  and  could  have  kept  them  bound 
together  on  such  a  night,  and  while  the  snow  was 


BliADE-O- GRASS. 


29 


falling  heavily.  He  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd  to  the  front,  and  saw  a  policeman  gazing 
stupidly  upon  two  forms  lying  on  the  ground. 
One  was  a  man — dead ;  the  other  a  baby — alive  in 
the  dead  man's  arms.  He  had  them — the  liv- 
ing and  the  dead— conveyed  to  the  station-house ; 
inquiries  were  set  afoot ;  an  inquest  was  held. 
Nothing  was  learned  of  the  man  ;  no  one  knew 
any  thing  of  him ;  no  one  remembered  having 
ever  seen  him  before ;  and  the  mystery  of  his  life 
was  sealed  by  his  death.  He  told  his  wife  the 
sad  story,  and  kept  her  informed  of  the  progress, 
or  rather  the  non-progress,  of  the  inquiry.  The 
man  was  buried,  and  was  forgotten  by  all  but  the 
Silvers.  Only  one  person  attended  the  parish 
funeral  as  mourner,  and  that  was  Mr.  Silver,  who 
was  urged  to  the  act  by  a  feeling  of  humanity. 

*'  The  poor  baby  I"  said  Mrs.  Silver,  when  he 
came  from  the  funeral — "  what  will  become  of 
it?" 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  told  her  hus- 
band that  she  had  dreamed  of  the  baby.  "It 
stretched  out  its  little  arms  to  me." 

Her  husband  made  no  reply ;  but  a  few  nights 
afterward,  having  arranged  with  the  parish  au- 
thorities, he  brought  home  the  child,  and  placed 
it  in  his  wife's  arms.  Her  heart  warmed  to  it 
immediately.  A  new  delight  took  possession 
of  her ;  the  maternal  instinct,  though  not  fully 
satisfied,  was  brought  into  play.  During  the 
evening  she  said,  "  How  many  helpless  orphans 
are  there  round  about  us,  and  we  are  childless ! " 
And  then  again,  looking  up  tenderly  from  the 
babe  in  her  lap  to  her  husband's  face,  "Perhaps 
this  is  the  reason  why  God  has  given  us  no  chil- 
dren." 

From  this  incident  sprang  the  idea  of  helping 
the  helpless  ;  and  year  after  year  an  orphan  child 
was  adopted,  until  they  had  six,  when  their 
means  were  lessened,  and  they  found  they  could 
take  no  more.  Then  Mr.  Merrywhistle  stepped 
in,  and  gave  sufficient  to  lift  another  babe  from 
Desolation's  lap.  Tliis  last  was  twin  sister  to 
Blade -o'- Grass,  and  they  named  her  Ruth. 
From  this  brief  record  we  pass  to  the  present 
evening,  when  all  the  ciiildren  are  assembled  in 
Mrs.  Silver's  house  in  Buttercup  Square. 

Some  little  time  is  spent  in  merry  chat — much 
questioning  of  the  children  by  Mr.  Merrywhistle, 
who  is  a  great  favorite  with  them,  and  to  whom 
such  moments  as  these  are  the  sweetest  in  his 
life.  Charley  tells  over  again  the  stirring  inci- 
dents of  the  day,  and  they  nod  their  heads,  and 
laugh,  and  clap  their  hands,  and  cluster  round 
him.     Charley  is  their  king. 

"Come,  children,  sit  down,"  presently  says 
Mr.  Silver.       ' 


They  sit  round  the  table,  Charley  at  the  head, 
next  to  Mrs.  Silver ;  tlien  come  Ruth  and  Ra- 
chel, with  hands  clasped  beneath  the  table-cloth  ; 
then  Mary  and  Richard.  Mr.  Silver  produces  a 
book ;  they  hold  their  breaths.  The  blind  girl 
knows  that  the  book  is  on  the  table,  and  her  fin- 
gers tighten  upon  Ruth's,  and  all  her  ears  are  in 
her  eyes.  It  is  a  study  to  watch  the  vai-ying 
shades  of  expression  upon  her  face.  As  Mr. 
Silver  opens  the  book  you  might  hear  a  pin  drop. 
Ruth  nestles  closer  to  Rachel,  and  Charley  rises 
in  his  excitement.  Mr.  Merrywhistle  sits  in  the 
arm-chair,  and,  as  he  looks  round  upon  the  hap- 
py group,  is  as  happy  as  the  happiest  among 
them.  It  is  the  custom  every  evening  (unless 
pressing  duties  intervene)  to  read  a  chapter  of  a 
good  work  of  fiction,  and  the  reading-hour  is 
looked  forward  to  with  eager  delight  by  all  the 
children.  Last  week  they  finished  the  "Vicar 
of  Wakefield,"  and  this  week  they  are  introduced 
to  the  tender  romance  of  "Paul  and  Virginia." 
The  selection  of  proper  books  is  a  grave  task,  and 
is  always  left  to  Mrs.  Silver,  who  sometimes  her- 
self reads  aloud. 

"Where  did  we  leave  off  last  night,  children  ?" 
asks  Mr.  Silver. 

"  Where  Madame  De  la  Tour  receives  a  letter 
from  her  aunt,"  answered  Maiy. 

"Yes,  from  her  spiteful  old  aunt,"  adds  Rich- 
ard, "and  where  Paul  stamps  his  feet  and  wants 
to  know  who  it  is  that  has  made  Virginia's  moth- 
er unhappy." 

A  "Hush-sh-sh!"  runs  round  the  table;  and 
Mr.  Silver  commences  the  beautiful  chapter  where 
Virginia  gives  food  to  the  poor  slave  woman,  and 
induces  her  master  to  pardon  her.  With  what 
eagerness  do  the  children  listen  to  how  Paul  and 
Virginia  are  lost  in  the  woods!  They  gather 
cresses  with  the  young  lovers,  and  they  help 
Paul  set  fire  to  the  palm-tree,  and  they  see  the 
Three  Peaks  in  the  distance.  Then  they  come 
to  the  fiimous  part  where  Paul  and  Virginia  stand 
by  the  banks  of  a  river,  tlie  waters  of  which  roll 
foaming  over  a  bed  of  rocks.  "  The  noise  of  the 
water  frightened  Virginia,  and  she  durst  not  wade 
through  the  stream  ;  Paul  therefore  took  her  up 
in  his  arms,  and  went  thus  loaded  over  the  slip- 
pery rocks,  which  formed  the  bed  of  the  river, 
careless  of  the  tumultuous  noise  of  its  watere." 
[Thinks  Richard,  "Oh,  how  I  wish  that  I  wei-e 
Paul,  caiTying  Virginia  over  the  river !  "J  " '  Do 
not  be  afraid,'  cried  Paul  to  Virginia;  'I  feel 
very  strong  with  you.  If  the  inhabitant  of  the 
Black  River  had  refused  you  the  pardon  of  his 
slave,  I  would  have  fought  with  him.'  "  ["And 
so  would  I,"  thinks  Richard,  clenchmg  his  fists.] 
Night  comes,  and  the  lovers  ai*e  almost  despair- 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


"they  6IT  ROtJND  TUB  TABLE,  CUAKLEY  AT  TUB  UEAD, 


ing.  Profound  silence  reigns  in  the  awful  soli- 
tudes. Will  they  escape?  Can  they  escape? 
Paul  climbs  to  the  top  of  a  tree,  and  cries, 
*' Come,  come  to  the  help  of  Virginia!"  But 
only  the  echoes  answer  him,  and  the  faint  sound 
of  "Virginia,  Virginia!"  wanders  through  the 
forest.  Despairing,  they  try  to  comfort  each  oth- 
er, and  seek  for  solace  in  prayer.  Hark !  they 
hear  the  barking  of  a  dog.  "  Surely,"  says  Vir- 
ginia, "it  is  Fidcle,  our  own  dog.  Yes,  I  know 
his  voice.  Are  we,  then,  so.  near  home?  At 
the  foot  of  our  own  mountain  ?"  So  they  are 
rescued,  and  this  night's  reading  ends  happily. 
The  delight  of  the  children,  the  intense  interest 
with  which  they  hang  upon  every  word,  can  not 
be  described.  Their  attention  is  so  thoroughly 
engrossed,  that  the  figures  of  the  young  lovers 
miglit  be  living  and  moving  before  them.  When 
Mr.  Silver  shuts  the  book,  a  sigh  comes  from  the 


youthful  audience.  A  pause  ensues,  and  then 
the  children  talk  unreservedly  about  the  story, 
and  what  the  end  will  be — all  but  Ruth,  who  is 
too  young  yet  to  form  opinions.  It  is  of  course 
this  and  of  course  that  with  them  all,  and  not 
one  of  them  guesses  the  truth,  or  has  any  idea  of 
the  tragic  ending  of  the  story. 

"Charley,"  says  little  Ruth,  "you  are  like 
Paul." 

They  all  clapped  their  hands  in  acquiescence. 

" But  Where's  my  Virginia?"  asks  Charley. 

"/'/^  be  Virginia,"  cries  Ruth,  somewhat  pre- 
cociously ;  "  and  you  can  carry  me  about  where 
you  like." 

They  all  laugh  at  this,  and  Ruth  is  quite  proud, 
believing  that  she  has  distinguished  herself.  It 
is  strange  to  hear  the  blind  girl  say,  ' '  I  can  see 
Paul  with  Virginia  in  his  arras."  And  no  doubt 
she  can,  better  than  the  others  who  are  blessed 


with  sight.  The  three  grown-up  persons  listen 
and  talk  among  themselves,  and  now  and  then 
join  in  the  conversation.  The  clock  strikes — 
nine.  It  is  a  cuckoo-clock,  and  the  children  list- 
en to  the  measured  "Cuck-oo!  Cuck-oo!"  until 
the  soulless  hird,  having,  with  an  egregious  ex- 
cess of  vanity,  asserted  itself  nine  times  as  the 
great  "  I  am"  of  all  the  birds  in  town  or  country, 
retires  into  its  nest,  and  sleeps  for  an  hour.  Then 
a  chapter  from  the  Bible  and  prayers,  and  in  the 
prayers  a  few  words  to  the  memory  of  two  —  a 
brother  and  a  sister — who  have  gone  from  among 
them.  For  last  year  they  were  seven  ;  now  they 
are  five.  Their  foces  grow  sad  as  the  memory  of 
their  dear  brother  and  sister  comes  upon  them  in 
their  prayers,  and  "Poor  Archie!"  "Poor  Liz- 
zie !"  hang  upon  their  lips.  The  night's  pleasures 
and  duties  being  ended,  the  three  youngest  chil- 
dren go  to  bed,  the  last  kind  nod  and  smile  being 
given  to  Ruth,  sister  to  poor  Blade-o'-Grass,  who 
lingers  a  moment  behind  the  others,  and,  with 
her  arm  round  Rachel's  neck,  cries  "Cuck-oo! 
Cuck-oo ! "  as  her  final  good-night.  But  the  proud 
bird  in  the  clock  takes  no  notice,  and  preserves  a 
disdainful  silence,  although  Ruth,  as  her  custom 
is,  waits  a  moment  or  two,  and  listens  for  the  re- 
ply that  does  not  come.  Charley  and  Mary  stop 
up  an  hour  later  than  the  others,  reading ;  but 
before  that  hour  expires,  Mr.  Merrywhistle  bids 
his  friends  good-night,  and  retires. 


BLADE-O'-GRASS. 

for  the  twenti( 
ing. 


■tPF 


31 


ia  ft  vowe  t>f  weak  plead- 


MR.  MERRYWHISTLE   MEETS  THE  QUEER  LITTLE 
OLD  5L\N. 

But  not  to  his  bed.  He  was  restlass,  and,  the 
night  being  a  fine  one,  he  strolled  out  of  Butter- 
cup Square  into  the  quiet  streets.  It  was  a  fa- 
vorite custom  of  his  to  walk  along  the  streets  of 
a  night  with  no  companions  but  his  thoughts. 
Almost  invariably  he  chose  the  quiet  streets,  for 
there  are  streets  in  London — north  and  south, 
and  east  and  west — which  never  sleep;  streets 
which  are  healthy  with  trafiic  in  the  day,  and 
diseased  with  traffic  in  the  night. 

Mr.  MeiTywhistle  walked  along  and  mused,  in 
no  unhappy  frame  of  mind.  A  visit  to  the  Silvers 
always  soothed  and  comforted  him ;  and  on  this 
occasion  the  sweet  face  of  Mrs.  Silver,  and  the 
happy  faces  and  voices  of  the  children,  rested 
upon  him  like  a  peaceful  cloud.  So  engrossed 
was  he,  that  he  did  not  heed  the  pattering  of  a 
small  urchin  at  his  side,  and  it  was  many  mo- 
ments before  he  awoke  from  his  walking  dream, 
and  became  conscious  of  the  importunate  in- 
truder. 

*'If  you  please,  Sir  I"  eaid  the  small  urchin, 


Mr.  MerrywK^de^logiked  down,  and  saw  a  fape 
that  he  fancied  he  lS(^en  feefore.  But  the  fliem- 
ory  of  the  happy  groupin buttercup  Square  still 
lingered  upon  him.  What  he  really  saw  as  ho 
looked  down  was  a  little  boy  without  a  cap,  large- 
eyed,  white-faced,  and  barefooted.  No  other  than 
Tom  Beadle,  in  fact,  making  hay,  or  trying  to  make 
it,  not  while  the  sun,  but  while  the  moon  shone. 

"  If  you  please.  Sir!"  repeated  the  boy,  "  will 
you  give  me  a  copper  to  buy  a  bit  o'  bread  ?" 

Then  the  dawn  of  faint  suspicion  loomed  upon 
Mr.  Merrywhistle.  He  placed  his  hand  lightly 
upon  Tom  Beadle's  shoulder,  and  said,  in  a  trou- 
bled voice,  "My  boy,  haven't  I  seen  you  before 
to-day?" 

"  No,  Sir,"  boldly  answered  Tom  Beadle,  hav- 
ing no  suspicion  of  the  truth ;  for  when  the  shil- 
ling was  slipped  into  his  hand,  his  eyes  were  to- 
ward the  ground,  and  he  did  not  see  Mr.  Merry- 
whistle's  face. 

"Were  you  not  on  the  Royal  Exchange  with 
a  little  girl,  and  didn't  I  give  you  a  —  a  shil- 
ling?" 

For  a  moment  Tom  Beadle  winced,  and  he 
had  it  in  his  mind  to  twist  his  shoulder  from 
Mr.  MeiTywhistle's  grasp  and  run  away.  For  a 
moment  only :  natural  cunning  and  his  inclina- 
tion kept  him  where  he  was.  To  tell  the  honest 
truth,  a  He  was  a  sweet  morsel  to  Tom  Beadle, 
and  he  absolutely  gloried  in  "  taking  people  in." 
So,  on  this  occasioii,  he  sent  one  sharp  glance  at 
Mr.  Merrywhistle — which,  rapid  as  it  was,  had 
all  the  effect  of  a  sun-picture  upon  him  —  and 
whined  piteously,  "  Me  'ave  a  shillin'  guv  to  me ! 
Never  'ad  sich  a  bit  o'  luck  in  all  my  bom  days. 
It  was  some  other  boy,  Sir,  some  cove  who  didn't 
want  it.  They  alius  gits  the  luck  of  it.  And 
as  for  a  little  gal  and  the  Royal  Igschange,  I 
wish  I  may  die  if  I've  been  near  the  place  for  a 
week!" 

"And  you  are  hungrj-?"  questioned  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle, fighting  with  his  doubts. 

"  'Aven't  'ad  a  ounce  o'  bread  in  my  mouth 
this  blessed  day;"  and  two  large  tears  gathered 
in  Tom  Beadle's  eyes.  He  took  care  that  Mr. 
Merrywhistle  should  see  them. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  sighed,  and  with  a  feeling 
of  positive  pain  gave  twopence  to  Tom  Beadle, 
who  slipped  his  shoulder  from  Mr.  Merrywhistle's 
hand  with  the  facility  of  an  eel,  and  scudded 
away  in  an  exultant  frame  of  mind. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  walked  a  few  steps,  hesita- 
ted, and  then  turned  in  the  direction  that  Tom 
Beadle  had  taken. 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "whether  the 


32 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


collector  was  right  this  morning,  and  whether  I 
have  been  assisting  in  making  criminals  to-day  ?" 
Truly  this  proved  to  be  a  night  of  coincidences 
to  Mr.  Meny whistle ;  for  he  had  not  walked  a 
mile  before  he  came  upon  the  queer  little  old  man 
whom  lie  had  met  on  the  Royal  Exchange.  The 
old  fellow  was  leaning  against  a  lamp-post,  smok- 
ing a  pipe,  and  seemed  to  be  as  much  at  home  in 
tlie  wide  street  as  he  would  have  been  in  his  own 
parlor.  He  looked  surly  and  ill-grained,  and  his 
eyebrows  were  veiy  precipitous.  His  mild  eye 
was  toward  Mr.  Merrywhistle  as  that  gentleman 
approached  him ;  and  when  Mr.  Merrywhistle 
slowly  passed  him,  his  fierce  eye  came  in  view 
and  liglited  upon  the  stroller.  Before  he  had 
left  the  old  man  three  yards  behind  him,  Mr. 
Meriywhistle  fancied  he  heard  a  chuckle.  He 
would  have  dearly  liked  to  turn  back  and  accost 
the  old  man,  but  a  feeling  of  awkwardness  was 
upon  him,  and  he  could  not  muster  suflScient 
courage.  Chance,  however,  brought  about  an 
interview.  Not  far  from  him  was  a  building  that 
might  have  been  a  palace,  it  was  so  grand  and 
light.  It  was  a  triumph  of  architecture,  with  its 
beautiful  pillars,  and  its  elaborate  stone-work. 
Great  windows,  higher  than  a  man's  height,  gilt- 
framed,  and  blazing  with  a  light  that  threw 
every  thing  around  them  in  the  shade,  tempted 
the  passer-by  to  stop  and  admire.  There  were 
three  pictures  in  the  windows,  and  these  pictures 
were  so  cunningly  surrounded  by  jets  of  light, 
that  they  could  not  fail  to  attract  the  eye.  Awful 
satires  were  these  pictures.  Two  of  them  rep- 
resented the  figure  of  a  man  under  different  as- 
pects. On  the  left,  this  man  was  represented 
with  a  miserably  attenuated  face,  every  line  in 
which  expressed  woe  and  destitution ;  his  clothes 
were  so  ragged  that  his  flesh  peeped  through ; 
his  cheeks  were  thin,  his  lips  were  drawn  in,  his 
eyes  were  sunken;  his  lean  hands  seemed  to 
tremble  beneath  a  weight  of  misery :  at  the  foot 
of  this  picture  was  an  inscription,  to  the  effect 
that  it  was  the  portrait  of  a  man  who  did  not 
drink  So-and-so's  gin  and  So-and-so's  stout,  both 
of  which  life's  elixirs  were  to  be  obtained  within. 
On  the  right,  this  same  man  was  represented  with 
fuU-fleshed  face,  with  jovial  eyes,  with  handsome 
mouth  and  teeth,  with  plump  cheeks,  with  fat 
hands — his  clothes  and  every  thing  about  him 
betokening  worldly  prosperity  and  happiness :  at 
the  foot  of  this  picture  was  an  inscription,  to  the 
effect  that  it  was  the  portrait  of  the  same  man 
who  (having,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  seen  the  en-or 
of  his  ways)  did  drink  So-and-so's  gin  and  So- 
and-so's  stout.  A  glance  inside  this  palace, 
crowded  with  misery,  would  have  been  sufficient 
to  show  what  a  bitter  satire  these  j>ictures  were. 


But  the  centre  picture,  in  addition  to  being  a  bit- 
ter satire,  was  awfully  suggestive.     It  was  this : 


Whether  to  the  artist  or  to  the  manufacturer  was 
due  the  credit  of  ingeniously  parading  "Old 
Tom"  in  a  coffin,  can  not  (through  the  ignorance 
of  the  writer)  here  be  recorded.  But  there  it 
shone — an  ominous  advertisement.  As  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle halted  for  a  rhoment  before  these  pic- 
tures, there  issued  from  the  Laboratory  of  Crime 
and  Disease  a  man  and  a  woman — he,  blotched 
and  bloated ;  she,  worn-eyed  and  weary — both  of 
them  in  rags.  The  woman,  clinging  to  his  ann, 
was  begging  him  to  come  home — for  his  sake ; 
for  hers;  for  the  children's;  for  God's!  With 
his  disengaged  hand  he  struck  at  her,  and  she 
fell  to  the  ground,  bleeding.  She  rose,  however, 
and  wiped  her  face  with  her  apron,  and  implored 
him  again  and  again  to  come  home — and  again 
he  struck  at  her :  this  time  with  cruel  effect,  for 
she  lay  in  the  dust  helpless  for  a  while.  A  crowd 
gathered  quickly,  and  a  hubbub  ensued.  In  the 
midst  of  the  Babel  of  voices,  Mr.  Meriywhistle, 
looking  down,  saw  the  strange  old  man  standing 
Jby  his  side.  The  same  surly,  sneering  expression 
was  on  the  old  man's  countenance,  and  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle felt  half  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him  for 
it.  But  before  he  had  time  to  speak,  the  old  man 
took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  pointing  the 
stem  in  the  direction  of  the  chief  actors  in  the 
scene,  said,  "I  knew  them  two  when  they  was 
youngsters." 

"  Indeed, "replied  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  interested 
immediately,  and  delighted  at  the  opportunity  of 
opening  up  the  conversation. 

"She  was  a  han'some  gal;  you'd  scarce  be- 
lieve it,  to  look  at  her  now.  She  'ad  eyes  like 
sloes ;  though  whetlier  sloes  is  bird,  beast,  or  fish, 
I  couldn't  tell  ye,  but  I've  heard  the  sayin'  a  'un- 
dred  times.  Anyways,  she  'ad  bright  black  eyes, 
and  was  a  good  gal  too ;  but  she  fell  in  love" — 
(in  a  tone  of  intense  scorn) — "with  that  feller, 
and  married  him,  the  fool!" 

"  What  has  brought  them  to  this  ?" 

"Gin!"  said  the  old  man,  expelling  the  word 
as  if  it  were  a  bullet,  and  bringing  his  fierce 


BLADE.  O'- GRASS. 


33 


eye  to  bear  with  all  its  force  upon  Mr.  Merrj- 
whistle. 

Short  as  was  the  time  occupied  by  this  dia- 
logue, it  was  long  enough  to  put  an  end  to  the 
scene  before  them.  The  woman  was  raised  to 
her  feet  by  other  women,  many  of  whom  urged 


to  talk  of  the  event  over  So-and-so's  gin  and  So- 
and-so's  stout.  Not  that  there  was  any  thing 
new  or  novel  in  tlie  occuiTence.  It  was  but  a 
scene  in  a  drama  of  real  life  that  had  been  played 
many  hundred  times  in  that  locality.  Presently 
the  street  was  quite  clear,  and  Mr.  Meirywhistle 


her  to  "  Give  him  in  charge,  the  brute !"  but  she  '  and  the  old  man  were  standing  side  by  side,  alone. 


shook  her  head,  and  staggered  away  in  pain. 
Very  quickly  after  her  disappearance  the  crowd 
dissolved,  by  fur  the  greater  part  of  it  finding  its 
way  through  tlie  swing-doors  of  the  gin-palace, 
C 


A  handy  lamp-post  ser>-ed  as  a  resting-place  for 
the  old  man,  who  continued  to  smoke  his  pipe, 
and  to  chuckle  between  whiles,  as  if  he  knew  that 
Mr.  Merrywhistle  wanted  to  get  up  a  conversa- 


84 


BLADE- O'- GRASS. 


tion,  and  did  not  know  how  to  commence.  As 
he  saw  that  the  old  man  was  determined  not  to 
assist  him,  and  as  every  moment  added  to  the 
awkwardness  of  the  situation,  Mr.  Merrywhistle 
made  a  desperate  phmge. 

*'\Vhen  I  was  on  the  Royal  Exchange  to- 
day— "  he  commenced. 

The  old  man  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  expelled  a  cloud  and  a  chuckle  at  the  same 
moment. 

"I  thought  you  was  a-comin'  to  that," he  said. 
*'  You  owe  me  a  bob." 

"What  for?" 

"I  made  a  bet  with  you — to  myself— that  the 
first  thing  you'd  speak  about  was  the  Royal  Ex- 
change. #bet  you  a  bob  —  to  myself — and  I 
won  it." 

Without  hesitation  Mr.  Merrywhistle  took  a 
shilling  from  his  pocket  and  offered  it  to  the  old 
man,  who  eyed  it  with  his  fierce  eye  for  a  mo- 
ment, doubtingly  and  with  curiosity,  and  then 
calmly  took  possession  of  it  and  put  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

*'When  you  was  on  the  Royal  Exchange  to- 
day," he  said,  repeating  Mr.  Menywhistle's  words, 
"you  sor  a  boy  and  a  girl  a-beggin'." 

"No,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  wannly; 
"  they  were  not  begging." 

"  YoM  may  call  it  what  you  like,"  said  the  old 
man ;  "but  / call  it  beggin' ;  and  so  would  that 
identical  boy,  if  I  was  to  ask  him.  He  wouldn't 
tell  you  so,  though.  The  boy  he  looked  as  if  he 
was  goin'  to  die,  and  you  give  him  a  copper  or  a 
bit  of  silver ;  and  you  wasn't  pleased  because  I 
laughed  at  you  for  it.     Now,  then,  fire  away," 

"Was  that  boy  starving?  Was  he  as  ill  as 
he  looked?    Was' I—" 

"Took  in ?"  added  the  old  man,  as  Mr.  Merry- 
whistle hesitated  to  express  the  doubt.  "  Why? 
D'ye  want  your  money  back?  Lord!  he's  a 
smart  little  chap,  is  Tom  Beadle ! " 

"You  know  him,  then  ?" 

"Know  him!"  replied  the  old  man,  with  a 
contemptuous  snort ;  "I'd  like  to  be  told  who  it 
is  about  'ere  I  don't  know.  And  I'd  like  to  know 
who  you  are.  I'm  almost  as  fond  of  askin'  ques- 
tions as  I  am  of  answerin'  'em.  What's  sauce 
for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander.  If  you 
expect  Jimmy  Wirtue  to  answer  your  questions, 
you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  answer  his'n." 

"  You're  M-r.  Virtue,  then  ?" 

"You're  at  it  agin.  No,  I'm  not  Mr,  Virtue" 
(he  had  to  struggle  with  the  "  V"  before  it  would 
pass  his  lips),  "but  Jimmy  Wirtue — and  that's 
not  Jimmy  W^ice.     ^Vhat's  your'n  ?" 

* '  Merrywhistle,"  replied  that  gentleman,  shortly. 

Jimmy  Virtue  was  pleased  at  the  quick  answer. 


"Merrywhistle!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  a 
rum 'name — rummer  than  mine.  What  more 
would  you  like  to  know  ?  What  am  I  ?  I  keep 
a  leavin'-shop.  Where  do  I  live?  In  Stoney 
Alley.  Now,  what  are  you  ?  and  where  do  you 
live?  Are  you  a  Methody  parson,  or  a  penny-a- 
liner,  or  a  detective,  or  a  cove  that  goes  about 
studyin'  human  nater,  or  a  feelanthrofist  ?  We've 
lots  o'  them  knockin'  about  'ere." 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  was  constrained  to  reply, 
but  found  himself  unexpectedly  in  a  quandary. 

"I'm  a — a — oh,  I'm  Nothing  Particular," 
blurting  it  out  almost  in  desperation. 

"You  look  like  it,"  chuckled  Jimmy  Virtue, 
so  tickled  by  his  smart  retort  as  to  be  satisfied 
with  Mr.  MeiTywhistle's  vague  definition  of  his 
calling.  "We've  lots  of  your  sort,  too,  knockin' 
about  'ere  —  more  than  the  feelanthrofists,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  But  I  don't  think  there's  any 
'arm  in  you.  Jimmy  Wirtue's  not  a  bad  judge 
of  a  face ;  and  he  can  tell  you  every  one  of  your 
organs.  'Ere's  Benevolence  —  you've  got  that 
large;  'ere's  Ideality — not  much  o'  that;  'ere's 
Language — shut  your  eyes ;  'ere's  Causality — no, 
it  ain't;  you  'aven't  got  it,  I  can't  see  your 
back  bumps,  nor  the  bumps  atop  o'  your  'ead ; 
but  I  could  ferret  out  every  one  of  'em,  if  I  'ad 
my  fingers  there." 

At  this  moment  an  individual  approached  them 
who  would  have-  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
most  unobservant.  Mr.  Merrywhistle  did  not 
see  his  fiice ;  but  the  gait  of  the  man  was  so  sin- 
gular, that  his  eyes  wandered  immediately  in  the 
direction  of  the  man.  At  every  three  steps  the 
singular  figure  paused,  and  puffed,  as  if  he  were 
a  steam-engine,  and  was  blowing  off  steam.  One 
— two — three;  pufF.  One — two — three;  pufi". 
One — two — three ;  puff. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  the  man  ?" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Merrywhistle  to  Jimmy  Virtue, 

"Nothing  that  I  knows  of,"  replied  Jimmy 
Virtue;  "he's  been  goin'  on  that  way  for  the 
last  twenty  year.  If  you're  lookin'  out  for  char- 
acters, you'll  get  plenty  of  'em  'ere.  Perhaps 
you're  a  artist  for  one  of  the  rubbishy  picter-pa- 
pers — one  of  the  fellers  who  sees  a  murder  done 
in  a  Whitechapel  court  one  day,  and  takes  a  pic- 
ter  of  it  on  the  spot  from  nater  ;  and  who  sees  a 
shipwreck  in  the  Atlantic  the  next  day,  and  takes 
a  picter  of  that  on  the  spot  from  nater.  That 
there  man's  worth  his  ten  'undred  golden  sover- 
eigns a  year,  if  he's  worth  a  penny  ;  and  he  lives 
on  tuppence  a  day.  The  girls  and  boys  about 
here  calls  him  Three-Steps-and-a-Puff.  If  you 
was  to  go  and  offer  him  a  ha'penny,  he'd  take 
it." 

By  the  time  that  Three-Steps-and-a-Puif  was 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


85 


out  of  sight,  the  tobacco  in  Jimmy  Virtue's  pipe 
had  turned  to  dust  and  smoke,  and  he  prepared 
to  depart  also.  But  seeing  that  Mr.  Merrywhis- 
tle  was  inclined  for  farther  conversation,  he  said : 

"Perhaps  you'd  like  to  come  down  and  see 
my  place  ?" 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  said  that  he  tro«W  very  much 
like  to  come  down  and  see  Jimmy  Virtue's  place. 

"Come  along,  then,"  said  Jimmy  Virtue,  but 
paused,  and  said,  "Stop  a  bit;  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  mind  buyin'  a  penn'orth  o'  baked  taters 
first." 

A  baked-potato-can,  with  a  man  attached  to 
it,  being  near  them,  Mr.  Merrywhistle  invested  a 
penny,  thinking  that  Jimmy  Virtue  intended  the 
potatoes  for  supper. 

"  Did  you  ever  consider,"  said  the  eccentric 
old  man,  as  they  turned  down  the  narrowest  of 
lanes,  "  that  a  big  city  was  like  a  theaytre  ?" 

"  No,  it  never  struck  me." 

"It  is,  though  ;  there's  stalls,  and  dress-circle, 
and  pit,  and  gallery,  in  a  big  city  like  London. 
The  west,  that's  the  stalls  and  private  boxes ;  the 
north,  that's  the  dress-circle ;  the  south,  that's  the 
pit ;  the  east,  that's  the  gallery.  This  is  the  pen- 
ny gallery  of  the  theaytre ;  'taint  a  nice  place  to 
lay  in." 

He  stopped  before  the  forais  of  two  children — 
a  boy  and  a  girl — who,  huddled  in  each  other's 
arms,  were  fast  asleep  in  a  gate- way.  He  stirred 
them  gently  with  his  foot,  and  the  boy  started  to 
his  feet  instantaneously,  wide  awake,  and  on  the 
alert  for  his  natural  enemies,  the  police.  Mr. 
Merrywhistle  was  standing  in  the  abutment  of 
the  gate-way,  and  the  boy  couldn't  see  his  face ; 
but  the  well-known  form  of  Jimmy  Virtue  was 
instantly  recognized ;  and  as  the  boy  sank  to  the 
ground,  he  muttered, 

"  What's  the  good  of  waking  us  up  just  as  we 
was  a-gettin'  warm  ?  You  wouldn't  like  it  your- 
self, Mr.  Wirtue, yoii  wouldn't." 

Then  he  crept  closer  to  his  companion,  and 
said,  sleepily, 

"Come  along,  Bladergrass, let's  turn  in  agin." 

The  girl,  who  had  been  regarding  the  two  dark 
shadows  with  a  half-frightened,  half-imploring 
look,  as  if  she  dreaded  that  they  were  about  to 
turn  her  out  of  her  miserable  shelter,  nestled  in 
the  lad's  arms,  and  the  next  minute  they  were 
asleep  again.  All  blessings  were  not  denied  to 
them. 

"  I  know  that  lad,"  said  Mr.  Meriywhistle. 

"You  ought  to;  it's  Tom  Beadle." 

"And  he  was  at  the  Royal  Exchange  to-day 
with  that  poor  little  girl  ?" 

"Yes,  that  was  him.  You  thought  he  was 
dyin'.     What  do  you  think  now  ?" 


I     Jimmy  Virtue  seemed  to  take  positive  pleas- 
ure in  putting  the  affair  in  the  worst  light. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  did  not  answer  the  question, 
but  said,  in  a  sad  tone,  "He  begged  of  me  again 
to-night." 

"  Did  he,  though !"  exclaimed  Jimmy  Virtye, 
admiringly. 

"And  when  I  asked  him  if  any  one  had  given 
him  a — a  shilling  on  the  Royal  Exchange  to-day, 
he  took  an  oath  that  he  hadn't  been  near  the  Roy- 
al Exchange  for  a  month,  and  that  he  had  never 
had  a  shiUing  given  to  him  in  all  his  life." 

"And  did  you  believe  him,  and  give  him  any 
thin'?" 

"  Yes"  (hesitatingly),  "I  gave  him  a  trifle." 

Jimmy  Virtue  stopped  by  a  post,  ai.d  held  his 
sides.  When  he  had  had  his  laugh  out,  h3 
said : 

* '  Tom's  a  smart  little  thief.  But  you're  not  the 
first  gent  he's  taken  in  twice  in  one  day.  Come, 
now,  he's  taken  you  in  twice  with  your  eyes  shut ; 
let  him  take  you  in  once  more  with  your  eyes 
open." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"  Them  baked  taters— " 

"Well?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing— like  returain' 
good  for  evil,  as  the  preachers  say — if  you  was  to 
go  and  put  them  taters  in  the  little  girl's  lap." 

"  No — no — no  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Merrywhistle, 
a  little  violently,  and  pausing  between  each  neg- 
ative, "  it  11  be  paying  a  premium  for  dishonesty 
and  lies." 

I  The  good  fellow's  heart  was  filled  with  pain 
h  he  uttered  these  words,  which,  hotly  spoken, 
served  as  fuel  to  flame ;  for  Jimmy  Virtue  turned 
upon  him  almost  savagely,  and  snarled : 

"  You're  a  nice  article,  you  are,  a-givin'  and 
repentin' !  I've  been  took  in  by  you,  I  'ave.  If 
I  'ad  my  fingere  on  the  back  o'  your  'ead,  I'd  find 
something  that  would  do  away  with  your  bumps 
o'  benevolence.  Dishonesty  and  lies!  What 
d'you  want,  you  and  the  likes  ?  The  boy's  got  to 
live,  ain't  he?  The  boy's  got  to  eat,  ain't  he? 
If  he  can't  work  and  don't  beg,  what's  he  to  do  ? 
Steal  ?  Yah !  D'you  think  he's  got  money  in  the  ' 
bank?  D'you  think,  if  he  'ad  his  pockets  full, 
he'd  sleep  in  the  open  air,  in  a  gate-way  ?" 

"Stop,  stop,  my  good  friend!"  implored  Mr. 
MeriTwhistle,  overcome  by  remorse  at  his  hard- 
heartedness.  He  ran  quickly  to  where  the  chil- 
dren were  lying,  and  deposited  the  baked  pota- 
toes, and  a  few  coppers  as  well,  in  the  girl's  lap 
and  hands.  When  he  came  back  to  where  Jim- 
my Virtue  was  standing,  he  found  that  worthy 
only  half  mollified. 

"A-givin'  and  repentin',"  muttered  the  old 


BLADE.  0'- GRASS. 


man,  as  he  walked  toward  Stoney  Alley,  "  that's 
a  nice  kind  o'  charity!"  Impelled  by  a  sudden 
thought,  he  turned  back  to  the  gate-way,  and 
kneehng  by  the  side  of  Blade-o'-Grass,  opened 
her  hot  hand  in  which  the  pence  were. 

*'  He's  not  a  bad  chap,  after  all,"  he  murmur- 
ed, as  he  retraced  his  steps,  "but  it's  enough  to 
rile  a  feller  and  put  a  feller's  back  up,  when  a 
man  gives  and  repents." 


JIMMY    VIRTUE    INTRODUCES    MR.    MERRTWIIIS- 
TLE   TO   HIS   PLACE   OF   BUSINESS. 

The  moment  Mr.  Men-ywhistle  entered  the 
habitation  of  Jimmy  Virtue  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
mildewed,  and  an  impression  stole  upon  him  that 
he  had  been  lying  on  a  musty  shelf  for  a  dozen 
years  at  least,  and  had  not  been  washed  during 
the  whole  of  the  time.  The  place  was  dark  when 
they  entered,  and  as  Mr.  Merrjrwhistle  advanced 
cautiously,  he  came  in  contact  with  soft  bundles, 
from  which  a  mouldy  smell  proceeded,  and  which 
so  encompassed  him  on  all  sides  that  he  was 
frightened  at  every  step  he  moved,  lest  he  should 
bring  confusion  on  himself.  When  Jimmy  Vir- 
tue lighted  two  melancholy  wicks — tallow  twelves 
— Mr.  Merrywhistle  looked  about  him  in  wonder. 
It  was  the  queerest  and  the  dirtiest  of  shops,  and 
was  filled  with  bundles  of  rags.  Pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, trowsers,  coats,  waistcoats,  and  under- 
clothing of  every  description  met  his  eye  which- 
ever way  he  turned ;  faded  dresses  and  dirty  pet- 
ticoats (many  with  mud  still  on  them,  as  if  they 
had  been  taken  off  in  the  streets  in  bad  weather) 
so  choked  the  shelves,  that  some  of  them  were  in 
danger  of  bursting  out ;  old  boots  hung  from  the 
ceiling;  old  crinolines  loomed  upon  him  from 
the  unlikeliest  of  places,  and,  as  he  looked  timor- 
ously up  at  them,  yawned  to  ingulf  him.  One, 
hanging  behind  the  parlor  door,  in  the  gloomiest 
comer,  was  so  disposed  that  Mr.  Merrywhistle's 
disturbed  fancy  added  the  lines  of  a  woman's 
form  hanging  in  it ;  and  the  fancy  grew  so  strong 
upon  him  that,  although  he  turned  his  back  to 
the  spot  immediately,  he  could  not  dismiss  the 
figure  of  the  hanging  woman  from  his  imagina- 
tion. There  was  an  apartment  behind  the  shop 
which  Jimmy  Virtue  called  his  parlor ;  but  that 
was  almost  as  full  of  rubbish  as  the  shop.  Nei- 
ther in  shop  or  parlor  was  there  fairly  room  to 
turn  round  in ;  if  you  wanted  to  perform  that 
movement,  you  had  to  tack  for  it, 

"And  this  is  your  dwelling?"  observed  Mr. 
Merrywhistle,  feeling  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
speak,  as  Jimmy  Virtue  led  the  way  into  the  par- 
lor and  motioned  him  to  a  seat. 


"  I  don't  call  it  by  that  name  myself,"  replied 
Jimmy  Virtue,  in  a  not  over-polite  tone,  "  It's 
where  I  live  and  gets  my  livin',  and  I  don't  give 
you  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

By  which  Mr.  Merrywhistle  understood  that 
beyond  a  quarter  of  an  hour  it  would  not  be  po- 
liteness for  him  to  stay. 

"Ever  been  in  a  leavin'-shop  before?"  asked 
the  old  man. 

"No,'*  replied  Mr.  Men-ywhistle ;  "not  that 
I  am  aware  of.  May  I  ask  you  what  a  leaving- 
shop  is  ?" 

"This  is,"  said  Jimmy.  "All  them  things 
you  see  in  the  shop  and  in  the  parlor — all  them 
crinolines  and  peddicuts,  and  boots  and  dresses — 
belongs  to  poor  people  round  about  'ere.  I  lend 
'em  a  trifle  on  'em,  and  takes  care  of  'em ;  and 
charges  'em  a  trifle  when  they  take  'em  out." 

"They  don't  seem  worth  much,"  obseiTed 
Mr.  Menywhistle,  reflectively. 

"  Perhaps  not— to  you.  But  they're  worth  a 
deal  to  them  they  belongs  to.  There's  a  many 
o'  them  crinolines  and  peddicuts  that  comes  in 
and  out  like  a  jack-in-a-box.  Their  movements 
are  as  regular  as  clock-work.  Monday  afternoon 
in,  Sunday  mornin'  out." 

Here,  to  Mr.  Meny whistle's  consternation, 
Jimmy  Virtue  took  out  his  mild  eye — it  being  a 
glass  one — and  with  the  laconic  remark,  "A 
damp  night  makes  it  clammy,"  wiped  it  calmly, 
and  put  it  in  again.  The  effect  of  this  upon  Mr. 
Merrywhistle  was  appalling.  To  see  that  mild 
eye — knowing  that  it  was  a  glass  one,  and  th:it 
a  damp  night  made  it  clammy— side  by  side 
with  that  fierce  eye,  which,  as  he  had  described, 
seemed  inclined  to  fly  out  of  its  owner's  head  at 
you,  was  almost  too  much  for  human  endurance. 
And  as  Mr.  Merrywhistle  looked  at  them — ^lie 
could  not  help  doing  so,  there  was  such  a  fiisci- 
nation  in  them — both  eyes  seemed  to  glare  at 
him,  and  the  glare  of  the  glass  was  more  dread- 
ful and  overpowering  than  the  glare  of  the  flesh. 
Jimmy  Virtue,  whose  one  organ  of  sight  was  as 
potent  as  if  he  were  Argus-eyed,  remarked  Mr. 
Meriywhistle's  perturbation,  and  quietly  enjoyed 
it ;  he  did  not  refer  to  the  subject,  however,  but 
considerately  treated  Mr.  Merrywhistle  to  as 
much  of  his  glass  eye  as  he  could  conveniently 
bestow  upon  him. 

"  Speakin'  of  crinolines  and  peddicuts,"  ob- 
served Jimmy,  recurring  to  his  stock,  "they're 
not  the  only  women's  things  that's  left.  We're 
in  the  fashion  down  'ere,  I  can  tell  you.  In  that 
box  that  you're  a-settin'  on,  there's  a  matter  of 
seven  chinons,  that  I  takes  care  of  regularly  a 
week-days — real  'air  three  of 'em  are;  them  as 
belongs  to  'em  I  do  believe  would  sooner  go  with- 


BLADE.  O'- GRASS. 


^ 


ont  their  stockin's  a  Sundays  than  without  their 
chinons.  And  now,  jumpin'  from  one  thing  to 
another,  I  should  like  to  know  whether  you've 
got  over  your  repentin'  fit,  and  whether  you 
think  Tom  Beadle  ought  to  be  put  in  quod  for 
takin'  your  shillin'  to-day  ?" 

*'  No ;  I've  no  doubt  he  did  it  out  of  necessity. 
But  I  wish  he  hadn't  told  me—" 

"Lies.  Don't  stop  at  the  word.  Out  of  ne- 
cessity! Ay,  I  should  think  he  did,  the  clever 
little  thief!  And  necessity's  the  mother  of  in- 
vention— consequently,  necessity's  the  mother  o' 
lies.  You  want  a  friend  o'  mine  to  talk  to  you. 
He'd  argue  with  you ;  but  I  fly  into  a  passion, 
and  ain't  got  the  patience  that  he's  got.  He'd 
talk  to  you  about  Tom  Beadle  and  little  Blade- 
o'-Grass,  and  put  things  in  a  way  that  'ud  stun 
you  to  'ear." 

"Little  what?" 

"  Blade-o'-Grass — the  little  girl  that's  sleepin' 
with  Tom  Beadle  in  the  gate-way." 

"What  a  singular  name! — has  she  a  mother 
and  father?" 

"  No  mother ;  I  can't  say  about  father.  I  re- 
member him  before  the  young  uns  was  born.  He 
lived  in  this  alley,  and  used  to  come  into  the  shop 
and  leave  his  wife's  things,  and  talk  about  the 
rights  of  man.  The  rights  of  man !  I  tell  you 
what  he  thought  of  them :  a  little  while  before 
his  wife  was  brought  to  bed,  he  cut  away  and 
left  her.  She  was  brought  to  bed  with  twins — 
girls — and  after  that  she  died." 

"Then  Blade-o'-Grass  has  a  sister?" 

"Who  said  she  'as?  I  didn't.  No,  she  ain't 
got  a  sister.  I  don't  know  what  came  o'  the 
other;  but  that  don't  matter  to  Blade-o'-Grass. 
Here  she  is,  poor  little  devil,  and  that's  enough 
for  her,  and  more  than  enough,  I'll  take  my  davy 
on.     Time's  up." 

This  was  an  intimation  that  it  was  time  for 
Mr.  Merrywhistle  to  take  his  departure.  Wish- 
ing to  stand  well  in  the  eyes  of  Jimmy  Virtue — 
notwithstanding  the  dreadful  effect  the  glass  eye 
had  upon  him — he  rose,  and  said  that  he  hoped 
they  would  meet  again ;  to  which  Jimmy  Virtue 
said  that  he  had  no  objection. 

"  What  do  you  say,  now,"  suggested  Mr.  Mer- 
rj'whistle,  "  to  you  and  your  friend  that  you  would 
like  to  talk  to  me  coming  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  or 
a  bit  of  dinner  with  me  ?" 

"Which?"  asked  Jimmy  Virtue.  "Tea  I 
don't  care  for. " 

"Dinner,  then." 

"A  good  dinner?" 

"  Yes." 

"Wine?" 

"Yes." 


Something  very  like  a  twinkle  shone  in  the  old 
man's  fierce  eye.  He  rubbed  his  hand  over  his 
chin,  and  said, 

"It's  worth  considerin'  on. — When?" 

"Next  Saturday;  any  time  in  the  afternoon 
you  like  to  name." 

"  That  'ud  suit  my  friend,"  said  Jimmy  Virtue, 
evidently'  impressed  by  the  prospect  of  a  good 
dinner ;  "he  leaves  off  work  a  Saturdays  at  two 
o'clock — " 

"  Then  we'll  consider  it  settled,"  said  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle, eagerly. 

" — But  I  don't  know  that  it  'ud  suit  we,"  con- 
tinued Jimmy,  the  twinkle  vanishing,  and  a  cal- 
culating look  taking  its  place.  "There's  the 
shop.  I'd  'ave  to  shut  it  up — and  then  what 
would  the  customers  do?  To  be  sure,  I  could 
put  up  a  notice  sayin'  that  it  'ud  be  open  at  nine 
o'clock.    I  keep  open  till  twelve,  Saturday  night." 

"Very  well ;  manage  it  that  way." 

"I  think  you  told  me  that  you  was  Nothink 
Particular  when  I  asked  you  what  you  was,  and 
bein'  Nothink  Particular,  time's  no  account  to 
you.  Now  it  is  some  account  to  me — it's  mon- 
ey." Here  he  turned  his  blind  eye  to  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle. "If  you  want  me  to  shut  up  my  shop 
for  six  hours,  say,  you  must  make  it  up  to  me. 
If  you  want  Jimmy  Wirtue's  company,  you  must 
pay  for  Jimmy  Wirtue's  time." 

"That's  fair  enough,"  said  Mr.  Merrywhistle, 
readily,  scarcely  hearing  the  suppressed  chuckle 
to  which  Jimmy  Virtue  gave  vent  at  the  answer. 
"  What  do  you  value  your  time  at  ?" 

"  Sixpence  an  hour— three  shillings  for  the  six 
hours.  Then  there's  the  disappointment  to  the 
customers,  and  the  injury  to  the  business ;  but 
I'll  throw  them  in." 

Without  a  word,  Mr.  Merrywhistle  took  three 
shillings  from  his  pocket  and  placed  them  on  the 
table.  Still  keeping  his  blind  side  to  Mr.  Merr}-- 
whistle,  Jimmy  Virtue  tried  the  coins  with  his 
teeth,  and  said,  "Done !" 

Whether  he  meant  that  he  had  "done"  Mr. 
Merrywhistle,  or  that  the  word  referred  to  the 
binding  of  the  invitation  to  dinner,  he  did  not 
stop  to  explain,  but  asked, 

"Where?" 

"At  the  'Three  Jolly  Butcher  Boys,'  Cannon 
Street, "replied  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  not  being  con- 
fident that  the  resources  of  his  establishment  in 
Buttercup  Square  would  be  sufiicient  to  satisfy 
his  new  and  eccentric  acquaintance. 

"That's  settled,  then," said  Jimmy,  "and  111 
bring  my  friend  at  four  o'clock.  And  now,  if 
you  don't  mind  takin'  a  bit  of  advice,  take  this — 
never  you  go  talkin'  to  strangers  agin  at  such  a 
time  o'  night  as  this,  and  never  you  accept  an- 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


other  invitation  to  visit  a  man  you  don't  know 
nothin'  of." 

"But  I  knew  I  could  trust  you,"  said  Mr. 
Merrywhistle,  smiling. 

"Did  you?"  exclaimed  Jimmy.  "Then  I 
wouldn't  give  the  snufF  of  a  candle  for  your 
judgment.    I'll  see  you  out  of  this,  if  you  please. " 

So  saying,  he  led  his  visitor  out  of  the  shop. 
Mr.  Merrywhistle  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him, 
help  casting  a  hurried  glance  over  his  shoulder 
in  the  direction  of  the  special  crinoline  which 
had  so  distressed  him ;  and  again  the  fancy  came 
upon  him  that  he  saw  a  woman  hanging  behind 
the  door.  When  he  was  in  the  open,  however, 
this  fancy  vanished,  and  he  breathed  more  free- 
ly. They  stopped  to  look  at  the  sleeping  forms 
of  Tom  Beadle  and  Blade-o'-Grass  in  the  gate- 
way. The  children  were  fast  locked  in  each 
other's  arms,  and  were  sleeping  soundly. 

In  the  wider  thoroughfare,  Jimmy  Virtue  bade 
Mr.  Merrywhistle  "good-night,"  and  as  he  walk- 
ed back  to  his  shop  in  Stoney  Alley,  amused  him- 
self by  polishing  his  glass  eye  with  a  dirty  pock- 
et-handkerchief, and  chuckling  over  the  remem- 
brances of  the  night. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Merrywhistle  made  his 
way  to  Buttercup  Square,  not  ill  pleased  with  his 
adventure.  But  in  the  night  he  was  tontnented 
by  singular  dreams,  the  most  striking  one  of  which 
contained  the  horrible  incident  of  Jimmy  Virtue 
glaring  at  him  with  his  glass  eye,  and  swallowing 
at  one  gulp  a  huge  baked  potato,  with  Tom  Bea- 
dle and  Blade-o'-Grass  sticking  in  the  middle 
of  it. 


THE    STRANGE    IDEA    OP    HALLELUJAH    ENTER- 
TAINED BY  BLADE-o'-GRASS. 

Punctually  at  four  o'clock  on  Saturday,  Jim- 
my Virtue,  accompanied  by  his  friend,  presented 
himself  to  Mr.  Merrywhistle  at  the  "Three  Jolly 
Butcher  Boys."  It  might  reasonably  have  been 
expected  that  Jimmy  would  have  made  some 
change  for  the  better  in  his  appearance,  in  honor 
of  the  occasion ;  but  Mr.  Merrywhistle  fancied 
that,  out  of  defiance,  Jimmy  had  allowed  the 
accumulated  dust  of  days  to  lie  thick  upon  his 
clothes,  and  that  he  had  purposely  neglected  to 
brush  them.  Indeed,  he  almost  asserted  as  much 
by  his  manner :  You  saw  what  I  was,  and  you 
forced  yourself  upon  me ;  you  invited  me  and  my 
friend  to  dinner,  and  you  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. His  only  eye,  as  it  blazed  at  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistle from  under  its  precipice  of  bushy  hair, 
seemed  to  be  asking  of  that  gentleman  how  he 
liked  its  owner's  appearance :  and  it  softened 
somewhat  in  the  kindly  glances  from  Mr.  Mer- 


ry^vhistle,  Avhose  countenance  was  beaming  with 
amiability  and  good-nature. 

"  This  is  my  friend  that  I  spoke  of,"  said  Jim- 
my Virtue ;  "his  name  is Truefit — Robert  True- 
fit.  Truefit  by  name,  and  Truefit  by  nature. 
This  is  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  who  sometimes  gives 
and  repents." 

Robert  Truefit  came  forward  with  a  manly 
bow,  and,  when  Mr.  Meriywhistle  offered  his 
hand,  shook  it  cordially. 

"My  friend,  Mr.  Virtue,  here — "  he  said,  and 
was  about  to  proceed,  when  the  old  man  struck 
in  with, 

"Now,  I  won't  have  it.  Bob ;  I  won't  have  it. 
None  of  your  misters  because  we're  before  com- 
pany. It's  Jimmy  Wirtue  when  we  are  alone, 
and  it's  Jimmy  Wirtue  now  ;  and  if  you're  a-go- 
in'  to  say  any  thin'  in  apology  for  me,  don't.  I 
don't  want  apologies  made  for  me,  and  I  won't 
'ave  'em." 

Robert  Truefit  laughed,  and  said,  "We  must 
let  old  Jimmy  have  his  way.  Sir,  so  I  won't  say 
what  I  was  going  to  say."  Robert  Truefit  was 
about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  was  a  stone-mason 
by  trade.  He  had  a  shrewd,  intelligent  face,  and 
clear  brown  eyes,  which,  young  as  he  was,  al- 
ready showed  the  signs  of  much  thought.  He 
was  as  manly  a  fellow  as  you  would  wish  to  look 
upon,  and  in  his  speech  and  manner  there  was  a 
straightforwardness  which  at  once  won  for  him 
the  good  opinion  of  those  with  whom  he  came 
in  contact.  So  conspicuous  was  this  straightfor- 
wardness of  speech  and  manner,  that  he  was  oft- 
en called  Straightfonvard  Bob  by  his  comrades 
and  those  who  knew  him  intimately.  Directly 
you  set  eyes  upon  him,  you  received  the  impres- 
sion, not  only  that  he  was  a  man  to  be  depended 
upon,  but  that  he  was  one  who  was  apt  to  form 
his  own  opinions,  and  would  stand  by  them 
through  thick  and  thin,  unless  absolutely  con- 
vinced, through  his  reason,  that  they  were  wrong. 
He  had  a  wife  who  adored  him,  and  children  wl;o 
looked  up  to  him  in  love  and  respect  as  to  a  king. 
He  was  a  ti'ue  type  of  English  manhood  and  En- 
glish shrewd  common  sense. 

By  the  time  the  few  words  were  exchanged, 
dinner  was  on  the  table,  and  Mr.  Merrywhistle 
motioned  his  guests  to  be  seated.  But  Jimmy 
Virtue,  turning  his  blind  eye  to  his  host,  said, 
with  an  odd  smile,  "I've  got  two  more  friends 
outside.     May  I  bring  them  in  ?"' 

Without  waiting  for  Mr.  MeiTywhistle's  con- 
sent, he  went  to  the  door  and  brought  forward 
Tom  Beadle  and  Blade-o'-Grass.  Presenting 
them  to  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  he  went  through  a 
kind  of  mock-introduction.  Mr.  Thomas  Beadle, 
Miss  Blade-o'-Grass,  Mr.  Merrywhistle. 


BLADE-O'-GRASS. 


Tom  Beadle  made  an  awkward  bow,  and  Blade- 
o'-Grass  made  a  still  more  awkward  courtesy. 
Blade-o'-Grass  was  the  only  one  of  the  four  guests 
who  had  thought  fit  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion 
ia  the  matter  of  dress.  Jimmy  Virtue,  as  you 
have  seen,  had  made  himself  shabbier  than  usual ; 
Robert  Truefit  was  in  his  working  clothes ;  and 
it  would  have  been  simply  impossible  for  Tom 
Beadle  to  have  made  any  change  in  his  garments, 
unless  he  had  stolen  them,  or  had  had  them  given 
to  him.  But  Blade-o'-Grass,  who,  like  Tom  Bea- 
dle, possessed  no  other  clothes  than  those  she 
stood  upright  in — and  those  were  as  ragged  as 
clothes  could  be — had  by  some  strange  means  ac- 
quired a  bonnet,  and  it  was  on  her  head  now.  Such 
a  bonnet !     If  it  had  been  gifted  with  a  tongue. 


my  Virtue,  and  mi 

and  elbows  to  ward^ 

expected  to  receive. 

chuckled  (knowing  the 

Beadle),  and  as  Mr.  Merrywhi 

itself,  the  lad,  after  a  time,  became  reassured, 

though  he  still  kept  his  elbows  ready. 

"You  sit  down  in  the  comer,"  said  Jimmy 
Virtue  to  the  children,  "and  when  we've  finish- 
ed dinner  you  may  eat  what's  left." 

"Nay,"  said  Mr.  Merry  whistle,  chiming  in 
with  the  humor  of  his  guest ;  "  there  is  more 
than  enough  for  all.  Let  them  eat  with  us." 
And  he  placed  the  children  at  the  table,  where 
they  sat  watching  the  filling  of  their  plates  with 
gloating  wonderment. 


R  A  BOW,  AND  BLADB-O'-OEASS  A  OOXriM 


it  could  doubtless  have  told  a  strange  story  of  its 
career.  For  although  now  it  was  only  fit  for  a 
dunghill,  it  had  been  a  fine  bonnet  once ;  and  toni 
and  soiled  as  it  was,  the  semblance  of  a  once  fash- 
ionable shape  was  still  dimly  recognizable.  But 
Blade-o'-Grass  was  proud  of  it,  wrecked  and  fall- 
en as  it  was  from  its  high  estate. 

Now  it  may  as  well  be  confessed  at  once,  that 
Tom  Beadle  was  not  at  his  ease.  Wlien  he  had 
made  his  awkward  bow,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
face  of  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  and  recognized  him. 
lie  did  not  know  where  he  was  going  to  when 
Jimmy  Virtue  had  asked  him  if  he  would  like  to 
have  a  good  dinner ;  and  when  he  recognized  Mr. 
Merrywhistle,  he  sent  a  reproachful  look  at  Jim- 


"Stop  a  minute,  young  uns,"  said  Jimmy 
Virtue,  arresting  their  uplifted  forks,  which  they 
were  clumsily  handling.  "  Grace  before  meat. 
Repeat  after  me :  For  this  bit  o'  luck—" 

"  For  this  bit  o'  luck,"  they  repeated. 

"Let  us  say — "  he. 

"Let  us  say — "  they. 

"Hallelujah!" 

"AUeloojah." 

"  Now  you  can  fire  away." 

And  fire  away  they  did,  eating  as  hungry 
children  only  can  eat — never  lifting  their  heads 
once  from  their  plates  until  they  had  cleaned 
them  out ;  then  they  looked  up  for  more. 

Jimmy  Virtue  was  quite  as  busily  employed 


40 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


as  the  children,  and  ate  and  drank  mth  an  air 
of  intense  enjoyment.  Robert  Truefit  had  more 
leisure.  He  ate  verj'  little,  having  had  his  din- 
ner at  one  o'clock.  Scarcely  any  conversation 
took  place  until  dinner  was  over.  Tom  Beadle 
and  Blade-o'-Grass  had  eaten  their  fill,  but  they 
still  held  their  knives  and  forks  in  their  hands, 
and  looked  eagerly  at  the  remains  of  the  meal. 
Jimmy  Virtue's  face  had  a  purplish  tinge  on  it, 
and  his  fierce  eye  had  a  mellow  light  in  it,  as  he 
saw  the  children  looking  eagerly  at  the  food. 

"  What  was  it  you  found  in  your  lap  the  other 
momin'  ?"  he  asked  of  Blade-o'-Grass. 

"  Nothin',''  was  the  reply. 

*'Not  baked  taters  ?" 

*'No;  we  didn't  'ave  'em  in  the  momin'. 
Tom  and  me  woke  up  in  the  middle  o'  the  night 
and  eat 'em." 

"Wasn't  you  astonished  to  find  baked  taters 
in  your  lap  when  you  woke  up  ?" 

*'No;  we  was  pleased." 

*'  Do  you  know  who  put  'em  there  ?' 

*'The  baked-tater  man?"  asked  Blake-o'- 
Grass,  after  a  little  consideration. 

"No;  it  wasn't  him.     Guess  agin." 

Blade-o'-Grass  considered,  and  shook  her 
head  ;  but  suddenly  a  gleam  lighted  up  her  face. 
She  pulled  Tom  Beadle  to  her,  and  whispered  in 
his  ear. 

"She  ses,  if  yer  please,"  said  Tom,  "that 
p'r'aps  it  was  AUeloojah." 

At  this  suggestion  Jimmy  Virtue  was  seized 
with  one  of  his  fits  of  noiseless  laughter ;  but 
both  Mr.  Merrywhistie  and  Robert  Truefit  look- 
ed grave.  Blade-o'-Grass  and  Tom  Beadle  saw 
nothing  either  gi-ave  or  ludicrous  in  the  sugges- 
tion, for  their  attention  was  fully  occupied  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  food  that  was  on  the 
table.  ]\Ir.  Merrywhistie,  who  was  observing 
their  rapt  contemplation  of  the  remains  of  the 
feast,  observed  also  Jimmy  Virtue's  fiery  eye 
regarding  him. 

"It's  your'n?"  questioned  the  old  man  of  his 
host. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"You pay  for  it,  whether  it's  eat  or  not?" 

"Yes." 

"  Give  it  to  the  young  uns." 

"  How  will  they  take  it  away  ?" 

"  In  a  newspaper. " 

Sharp  Tom  Beadle  followed  every  word  of  the 
dialogue,  and  his  lynx  eyes  were  the  first  that 
saw  a  newspaper  on  a  sofa  in  the  room.  He 
jumped  from  his  seat  and  brought  forward  the 
paper,  his  eyes  glistening  with  hope.  Mr.  Mer- 
rywhistie and  Jimmy  Virtue  wrapped  up  what 
remained  of  the  joint  of  meat  in  the  newspaper. 


"Food  for  mind  and  body,"  said  Robert 
Truefit,  as  the  parcel  was  given  to  Tom. 

Tom  ducked  his  head,  without  in  the  least 
knowing  what  Robert  Truefit  meant — and  not 
caring  either.  His  great  anxiety  was  to  get 
away,  now  that  he  had  as  much  as  was  likely  to 
be  given  to  him.  Blade-o'-Grass  shared  his 
anxiety.  The  gift  of  the  food  was  such  a  splen- 
did one — there  really  was  a  large  qui\ntity  of 
meat  left  on  the  joint — that  she  feared  it  was 
only  given  to  them  ' '  out  of  a  lark, "  as  she  would 
have  expressed  it,  and  that  it  would  be  taken 
from  them  presently.  A  premonition  was  upon 
her  that  she  would  be  hungry  to-morrow. 

The  children  stood  in  painful  suspense  before 
the  grown-up  persons.  Their  anxiety  to  be  dis- 
missed was  so  great  that  they  threw  restless  glances 
around  them,  and  shuffled  uneasily  with  their 
feet.  But  Mr.  Merrywhistie  had  something  to 
say  first.  He  had  great  difficulty  in  commencing, 
however.  He  coughed  and  hesitated  and  almost 
blushed,  and  looked  at  Jimmy  Virtue  in  a  shame- 
faced kind  of  way. 

"The  other  day,"  at  length  he  commenced, 
addressing  himself  to  Tom  Beadle,  "when  I 
saw  you  and  Blade-o'-Grass  on  the  Royal  Ex- 
change— " 

Tom,  in  the  most  unblushing  manner,  was 
about  to  asseverate,  upon  his  soul  and  body,  that 
he  was  not  near  the  Royal  Exchange,  when  Jim- 
my Virtue's  warning  finger  and  Jimmy  Virtue's 
ominous  eye  stopped  the  lie  on  his  lips. 

" — On  the  Royal  Exchange,"  continued  Mr. 
Merrywhistie,  "and  gave  you — a — a  shilling, 
were  you  really  ill,  as  you  seemed  to  me  to 
be?" 

A  look  of  triumphant  delight  flashed  into  Tom 
Beadle's  eyes.  "  Did  I  do  it  well.  Sir  ?"  he  cried, 
nudging  Blade-o'-Grass.  "Did  I  look  as  if  I 
was  a-dyin'  by  inches  ?" 

Mr.  Merrywhistie  winced,  as  if  he  had  received 
a  blow. 

"  Oh, Tom,  Tom !"  he  exclaimed, gently,  "are 
you  not  ashamed  of  yourself?" 

"  No,"  answered  Tom,  without  hesitation,  his 
manner  instantly  changing. 

Blade-o'-Grass,  perceiving,  with  her  quick  in- 
stinct, that  something  was  wrong,  and  that  Tom 
was  likely  to  get  into  disgrace  because  he  had 
made  the  gentleman  believe  that  he  was  dying 
by  inches,  stepped  forward  chivalrously  to  the 
rescue. 

"If  you  please.  Sir,"  she  said,  "you  mus'n't 
blame  Tom.  It  was  all  along  o'  me  he  did 
it." 

Thereupon  the  following  colloquy  took  place : 

RoBKRT  Trcefit.  Bravo,  Blade-o'-Grass ! 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


41 


Mr.  Merrtwhistle  [only  too  ready  to  receive 
justijicaliori].  Come  here,  child.  How  was  it 
all  along  of  you  ? 

Tom  Beadle  [taking  moral  shelter  behind 
'Blade-o'- Grass].  Tell  the  gent  the  truth,  Blader- 
grass ;  he  won't  'urt  you.  Tell  him  about  the 
tiger. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle  [in  amazement'].  The 
tiger  r 

Blade-o'-Gra8S  [c/ravely].  Yes,  Sir ;  I  got  a 
tiger  in  my  inside. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  Who  on  earth  put  such 
a  monstrous  idea  into  the  child's  head  ? 

Blade-o'-Grass.  Mr.  Wiftue  knows  all  about 
it,  and  so  does  all  the  others  in  Stoney  Alley. 

JiMMT  Virtue  [nodding  gravely  in  conjirma- 
tion].  Yes,  she's  got  a  tiger.  Tell  the  gentleman 
what  it  does  to  you,  Blade-o'-Grass. 

Blade-o'-Gra88.  Eats  up  every  think  as  goes 
down  my  throat,  Sir ;  swallers  every  blessed  bit 
I  puts  in  my  mouth  ;  and  when  I  ain't  got  noth- 
ink  to  give  it,  tears  at  me  like  one  o'clock. 
Tom's  giv  me  grub  for  it  orfen  and  orfen,  Sir :  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  a'  done  lots  o'  times 
if  it  'adn't  been  for  'ira.  [Mr.  Merrywhistle  sheds 
a  kindly  glance  on  Tom  Beadle^  who  receives  it 
with  an  air  of  injured  innocence].  Well,  Sir, 
last  Monday  the  tiger  was  a-goin'  on  orfle,  and 
I  was  so  sick  that  I  begins  to  cry.  Then  Tom 
comes  up,  and  arks  me  what  I'm  cryin'  for ;  and 
I  tells  'im  that  the  tiger's  a-worryin'  the  inside 
out  o'  me.  Tom  feels  in  'is  pockets,  but  he  ain't 
got  a  copper  to  give  me ;  so  he  ses,  *'  Come  along 
o'  me,"  ses  Tom;  and  he  ketches  'old  of  my 
'and,  and  takes  me  to  the  Royal  Igschange. 
Then  he  ses,  ses  Tom,  "  If  any  body  arks  you, 
Bladergrass,  just  you  say  that  I'm  your  brother, 
a-dyin'  of  consumption.  I'm  a-dyin'  by  inches, 
I  am."  And  I  cries  out.  Sir,  for  Tom  looked 
jist  as  if  he  was  a-dyin*  by  inches.  [A  smile  of 
triumph  wreathes  Tom  Beadle's  lips ;  he  has  the 
proper  pride  of  an  artist.]  But  Tom  tells  me 
not  to  be  frightened,  for  he's  only  a-shammin'. 
Then  the  peeler  tellS  us  to  move  on,  and  you 
comes  up  and  gives  Tom  a  shillin' ;  and  the  first 
thing  Tom  does  is  to  buy  a  poloney  for  me  and  a 
'unk  o'  bread  for  the  tiger. 

Tom  Beadle.  I  wish  I  may  die,  Sir,  if  she 
ain't  told  the  truth,  the  'ole  truth,  and  nothin' 
but  the  truth,  so  'elp  me  Bob ! 

Blade-o'-Grass  gazes  at  Mr.  Merryw'aistle  ea- 
gerly, and  with  glistening  eyes,  and  seeing  that 
her  vindication  of  Tom  has  raised  him  in  the  es- 
timation of  their  benefactor,  nods  at  her  ragged 
companion  two  or  three  times  in  satisfaction. 
Mr.  Merrywhistle,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  forgives 
Tom  for  the  deception — nay,  finds  justification 


for  it ;  and  the  children  are  allowed  to  depart 
with  their  spoil. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  That's  a  sad  sight  and 
a  sad  tale. 

Robert  Truefit.  England's  full  of  such  sights 
and  such  tales. 

Jimmy  Virtue  pricked  up  his  ears.  He  knew 
when  his  friend  Bob  was  "coming  out,"  and  he 
prepared  himself  to  listen  by  taking  out  his  glass 
eye  and  contemplating  it  with  his  fierce  eye,  pol- 
ishing it  up  the  while. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle  [rjently].  Not  full  of  such 
sights,  surely  ? 

Robert  Truefit.  Yes,  full  of  them,  unfortu- 
nately. Take  London.  There  are  thousands 
and  thousands  of  such  children  in  such  positions 
as  Tom  Beadle  and  Blade-o'-Grass,  hanging 
about  the  courts  and  alleys — pushed  out  of 
sight,  one  might  almost  say.  And  as  London 
is,  so  every  other  large  English  city  is.  If  they 
haven't  shoals  of  boys  and  girls  growing  up  to 
men  and  women  in  one  bad  way,  they  have  them 
in  another  bad  way.  I  know  what  old  Jimmy 
got  me  here  for  to-day— he  wanted  me  to  talk ; 
he  knows  I'm  fond  of  it. 

JiMMT  Virtue.  Bob  ought  to  be  in  Pailey- 
ment.     He'd  tell  'em  somethin'. 

Robert  Truefit.  That's  a  specimen  of  old 
Jimmy's  flattery.  Sir.  I  don't  see  what  good  I 
could  do  in  Parliament.  I've  got  to  work  for 
my  living,  and  that  takes  up  all  my  time.  If  I 
were  in  Parliament,  I  should  have  to  get  money 
somehow  to  support  my  wife  and  family,  and  it 
isn't  in  my  blood  to  become  a  pensioner.  Be- 
sides, I  should  be  contented  enough  with  what's 
called  "the  ruling  powers"  if  they'd  only  turn 
their  attention  more  to  such  social  questions  as 
this. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  Ah,  I'm  glad  of  that ; 
I'm  glad  you're  not  a  republican. 

Robert  Truefit.  Not  I,  Sir,  though  I  don't 
know  what  I  might  become  by-and-by ;  for  there's 
no  denying  that  things  are  unequal,  and  that 
working-men  are  talking  of  this  inequality  more 
and  more  every  year.  You'd  be  surprised  to 
know  what  they  think  about  this  and  that.  And 
although  I  don't  go  so  far  as  some  of  them  do,  I 
can't  help  agreeing  with  them  in  many  things. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  But  what  do  they  want  ? 
Equality  ?    Such  a  thing  is  impossible. 

Robert  Truefit.  I  know  it  is.  You'd  have 
to  do  away  with  brains  before  you  got  that; 
though  there  are  a  many  who  believe  that  it  is  to 
be  arrived  at.  Some  of  them  are  fools,  and  some 
of  them  are  rogues ;  but  some  of  them  have  real- 
ly worked  themselves  up  into  absolute  belief. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  Discontented  people  are 


42 


BLADE- O'- GRASS. 


to  be  found  eveiy  where,  and  under  any  form  of 
government. 

Robert  Tkuefit.  Ay,  that's  the  way  a  great 
many  sum  up ;  when  they  say  that,  they  think 
they  have  found  out  the  cause,  and  that  the  mat- 
ter is  settled.    'Tisn't  the  sensible  way  to  view  it. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  What  is  the  reason, 
then,  of  this  spread  of  feeling  among  working- 
men? 

Robert  Truefit.  That's  a  large  question, 
and  would  take  too  long  to  answer.  But  I  think 
the  penny  newspaper  is  partly  accountable  for  it. 
They  can  afford  to  buy  the  penny  and  half-penny 
newspaper,  and  they  read  them,  and  talk  more 
among  themselves.  You  see,  things  press  upon 
them.  They  are  arriving  at  a  sort  of  belief  that 
the  laws  are  made  more  for  the  protection  and 
benefit  of  property  than  for  the  protection  and 
benefit  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and  as  their  value  in 
the  market  doesn't  lie  in  land  and  money,  but 
in  bone  and  muscle,  the  idea  isn't  pleasant  to 
them. 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  But  surely  they  are 
not  right  in  this  idea? 

Robert  Truefit.  Are  they  not  ?  Read  the 
newspapers,  and  you'll  find  they  are.  Why,  a 
man  may  do  any  thing  to  flesh  and  blood,  short 
of  murder,  and  the  law  won't  be  very  hai-d  on 
him.  But  let  him  touch  property,  ever  so  little, 
and  down  it  comes  on  him  like  a  sledge-hammer. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  read  in  the  police  reports  this 
moiTiing.  A  man  is  had  up  at  the  police  court 
for  beating  his  wife.  The  woman  is  put  mto  the 
box,  with  marks  on  her  face  and  with  her  head 
bandaged ;  the  man  doesn't  deny  that  he  beat 
her,  and  half  a  dozen  witnesses  prove  that  he 
beat  her  cruelly ;  the  floor  of  the  room  in  which 
they  lived  was  covered  with  blood-stains.  There 
is  no  excuse  for  him;  no  aggravation  on  her 
part  is  set  up ;  a  doctor  states  that  if  one  of  the 
blows  she  received  had  been  a  little  more  on  the 
left  of  her  head,  she  would  have  been  killed ; 
and  the  man  gets  three  months'  hard  labor. 
Afterward  a  man  is  brought  up  for  stealing 
three-and-sixpence.  He  is  miserably  dressed, 
and  there  is  want  in  his  face.  The  evidence  in 
this  case  is  quite  as  clear  as  in  the  other.  The 
prisoner  snatched  a  purse,  containing  three-and- 
sixpence,  out  of  a  man's  hand,  and  ran  away. 
Being  searched,  not  a  farthing  is  found  upon 
him,  nor  any  thing  of  the  value  of  a  farthing. 
The  man  does  not  deny  the  theft,  and  says  he 
wanted  a  meal ;  the  police  know  nothing  of  him ; 
and  he  gets  three  months'  hard  labor.  Compare 
these  equal  sentences  with  the  unequal  offenses, 
and  you  will  see  the  relative  value  of  property 
and  human  flesh  in  the  criminal  market. 


Jimmy  Virtue.  Bob  puts  it  plainly,  doesn't 
he? 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle.  But  these  cases  must 
be  rare. 

Robert  Truefit.  They  are  very  common ; 
and  these  two  cases  that  I  have  put  side  by  side 
are  two  of  the  mildest.  Listen  to  this — another 
wife-beating  case :  Husband  comes  home  at  noon. 
What  kind  of  man  he  is  may  be  guessed  from 
his  words  to  his  wife:  ^'I've  something  to  tell 

thee,  you !     I'm  going  to  murder  thee, 

you  !"    He  takes  off  his  jacket,  calls  his 

bull-dog,  and  sets  it  at  his  wife.  As  the  dog 
flies  at  the  woman,  her  husband  hits  her  in  the 
face ;  the  dog  drags  her  from  the  sofa,  with  its 
teeth  in  her  flesh  (it  is  almost  too  horrible  to  tell, 
but  it  is  true,  every  word  of  it),  and  the  husband 
jumps  upon  her,  and  kicks  her  on  the  head  and 
shoulders.  Imploring  him  to  have  mercy  upon 
her,  crying  for  help,  the  woman  is  dragged  by 
the  dog  from  room  to  room,  tearing  flesh  out  of 
her.  The  frightful  struggle  continues  for  some 
time,  until  the  woman  manages  to  make  her  es- 
cape from  the  house.  It  is  dreadful  to  read  the 
doctor's  description  of  the  state  of  the  woman, 
and  how  he  feared,  for  three  or  four  days,  that 
mortification  would  set  in.  The  man  is  sentenced 
to — what  do  you  think?  Six  months'  hard  la- 
bor. About  the  same  time,  a  very  young  man 
is  found  guilty  of  stealing  twenty  shillings'  worth 
of  metal,  and  he  gets  seven  years'  penal  servi- 
tude. But  I  could  multiply  these  instances. 
You  may  say  that  such  cases  as  these  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  broad  question  of  misgovern- 
ment ;  but  I  maintain  that  they  have.  You  get 
your  criminal  material  from  such  places  as  Stoney 
Alley,  where  poor  Blade-o'-Grass  lives ;  and 
yet  Stoney  Alley  is  as  bad  now — ay,  and  worse 
than  it  was  fifty  years  ago.  The  law  knows  of 
its  existence,  has  its  wakeful  eye  upon  it ;  but 
what  has  the  law  done  for  its  good,  or  for  the 
good  of  those  who  live  there?  Take  the  case 
of  Blade-o'-Grass.  What  does  the  law  do  for 
her  ? — and  by  the  law  you  must  understand  that 
I  mean  the  governing  machinery  for  keeping  so- 
ciety in  order,  and  for  dispensing  justice  to  all 
— out  of  our  police  courts  as  well  as  in  them. 
Think  of  the  stoiy  she  told,  and  the  way  in 
which  she  told  it.  There  is  capacity  for  good  in 
that  child — ay,  and  in  Tom  Beadle  too.  Can 
you  doubt  that,  but  for  your  charity,  she  might 
have  died  of  hunger  ? 

Mr.  Merrtwhistle  [eagerly'].  Then  you 
don't  disapprove  of  indiscriminate  charity  ? 

Robert  Truefit.  Not  I :  I  don't  disapprove 
of  a  man  putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and 
exercising  a  benevolent  impulse.     Your  lip-phi- 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


43 


lanthropists,  who  preach  against  indiscriminate 
charity — what  would  they  do  for  Blade-o'-Grass  ? 
What  would  they  do!  What  do  they  do? 
"Work,"  they  say.  But  they  don't  give  her 
work;  don't  even  teach  her  how  to  work,  if 
such  a  miracle  happened  to  fall  in  her  way. 
And  all  the  while  the  policeman  says,  "  Move 
on."  I  know  something,  through  Jimmy  here, 
of  Blade-o'-Grass — a  hapless  waif,  an  incum- 
brance, a'blot,  serving  as  a  theme  for  countless 
meetings  and  oceans  of  words.  What  business 
has  she  in  the  world  ?  But  she  came,  unfortu- 
nately for  herself,  and  she  is  so  legislated  for, 
that  to  live  is  her  greatest  affliction. 

Jimmy  Virtue.  It's  my  opinion  that  a  good 
many  of  the  fellers  who  preach  agin  indiscrimi- 
nate charity  only  do  so  as  an  excuse  for  but- 
tonin'  up  their  pockets. 

Eohert  Truefit  [laughing].  And  their 
hearts  as  well,  Jimmy.  You  put  me  in  mind  of 
something  I  saw  last  Sunday  in  Upper  Street,  Is- 
lington. The  people  were  coming  out  of  church. 
A  couple — evidently  man  and  wife — were  walk- 
ing before  me,  talking  on  religious  matters — or, 
rather,  he  was  talking  and  she  was  listening.  I 
passed  them  just  as  he  was  saying,  "If  I  haven't 
got  the  grace  of  God  in  my  heart,  I'd  like  to 
know  who  has  got  it?"  and  at  the  same  moment 
as  forlorn-looking  a  woman  as  ever  I  set  eyes 
on  intercepted  him,  and  courtesied,  and  held 
out  her  hand  imploringly.  He  pushed  her  aside 
surlily,  and  with  a  sour  look  on  his  face,  and 
walked  along  talking  of  the  grace  of  God.  The 
woman  may  have  been  an  impostor — in  other 
words,  a  professional  beggar ;  but  I  should  be  sor- 
ry to  call  that  Grace-of-God  man  my  friend.  No, 
Sir,  I  don't  think  that  it  is  a  good  thing  to  crush 
a  kindly  impulse,  or  that  we  should  treat  our 
best  feelings  and  emotions  as  so  many  figures  in 
a  sum.  It  is  not  the  giver  who  makes  beggars. 
The  fault  i^  in  the  system,  which  opens  no  road 
for  them  at  the  proper  time  of  their  lives. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  [sadly'].  But  tell  me : 
do  you  see  no  remedy  for  these  ills  ? 

lioBEUT  Truefit.  The  remedy  is  simple. 
Commence  at  the  right  end.  Train  up  a  child 
in  the  way  it  should  go,  and  wlien  it  is  old  it 
will  not  depart  from  it.  And  by  the  same  rule. 
Train  up  a  child  in  the  way  it  shouldn't  go,  and 
when  it  is  old  it  will  not  depart  from  it.  It  is 
almost  time  for  me  and  Jimmy  to  be  off.  Jim- 
my wants  to  open  his  shop,  and  I  want  to  get 
home  to  my  wife  ;  but  I'll  just  tiy  to  explain  what 
I  mean.  Two  poor  boys,  one  six  and  one  nine 
years  of  age,  lost  their  mother ;  a  few  weeks  aft- 
envard  they  were  caught  taking  some  potatoes 
ftom  a  garden.     The  presumption  is  that  they 


were  hungry.  The  potatoes  were  valued  at  one 
penny.  The  boys  were  sent  to  prison  for  four- 
teen days,  and  the  state  thus  commenced  their 
education.  I  will  conclude  with  a  personal  ex- 
perience. I  had  occasion  to  go  to  Liverpool 
some  little  time  ago,  and  on  the  day  that  I  was 
to  return  to  London  I  saw  a  girl  standing  against 
a  wall,  crj-ing  bitterly.  She  was  a  pretty  girl, 
of  about  sixteen  years  of  age.  I  went  and  spoke 
to  her,  and  soon  saw  that  the  poor  girl  was  utter- 
ly bewildered.  It  appeared  that  she  had  landed 
that  morning  in  Liverpool,  having  been  brought 
by  her  sister  from  Ireland,  and  that  her  sister 
had  deserted  her.  A  more  simple,  artless  girl  I 
never  met,  and  she  hadn't  a  penny  in  her  pocket, 
nor  a  friend  in  the  Liverpool  wilderness.  I 
thought  to  myself,  This  girl  will  come  to  harm. 
Hungry,  friendless,  pretty —  I  went  to  a  po- 
j  liceman,  and  told  him  the  story.  The  police- 
man scratched  his  head.  "Is  she  a  bad  girl?" 
he  asked.  I  was  shocked  at  the  question,  and 
said  no,  I  was  sure  she  was  not ;  that  she  was  a 
simple,  good  girl,  almost  a  child — and  was  as 
complete  an  outcast  as  if  she  were  among  sav- 
ages. The  policeman  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  said,  civilly  enough,  that  he  couldn't  do  any 
thing.  "  What  did  you  mean  by  asking  if  she 
was  a  bad  girl?"  I  asked.  "Well,  you  see," 
he  answered,  "if  she  was  a  bad  girl,  and  want- 
ed to  be  took  care  of,  I  could  take  her  some- 
where." "  Wliere  she  would  be  taken  care  of?" 
I  asked.  "Yes,"  he  answered.  "And  have  food 
given  to  her?"  "Yes."  "But  a  good  girl," 
I  said,  "  homeless,  friendless,  and  hungrj- — " 
"  Can't  interfere  with  them,''  said  the  policeman. 
"She'll  have  to  qualify  herself  for  a  refuge,  then," 
I  could  not  help  saying,  bitterly,  as  I  turned 
away,  leaving  the  poor  girl  in  her  distress ;  for 
I  could  do  nothing,  and  had  only  enough  money 
to  take  me  third-class  to  London.  There,  Sir! 
You  can  draw  your  own  moral  from  these  things. 
Many  a  working-man  is  drawing  conclusions 
from  such-like  circumstances,  and  the  feeling 
that  statesmen  are  ignoring  the  most  important 
problems  of  the  day  is  gaining  strength  rapidly. 
For  my  own  part,  I  honestly  confess  that,  with- 
out one  tinge  of  socialism  or  even  republicanism 
in  my  veins,  I  am  not  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  are. 

With  these  words,  spoken  vci^'  earnestly,  Rob- 
ert Truefit,  accompanied  by  Jimmy  Virtue,  took 
his  departure.  But  Jimmy  Virtue  found  time 
to  whisper  in  Mr.  Merrywhistle's  ear, 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  Bob  'ud  talk  to  you?  It 
ain't  dear  at  sixpence  an  hour,  is  it  ?" 

Mr.  JMerrjwhistle  said  no;  it  was  not  at  all 
dear,  and  he  hoped  soon  to  see  them  again. 


44 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


"AH  right,"  said  Jimmy  Virtue,  with  a  last 
flash  from  his  fierce  eye ;  "when  you  like ;"  and 
so  departed. 

♦ 

THE  INTERLUDE. 

In  times  gone  by  it  used  to  be  the  sometime 
fashion  in  the  theatres  to  have  an  interlude  be- 
tween the  acts  of  the  melodrama,  so  that  the 
mind  might  find  some  relief  from  the  thrilling 
horrors  which  had  just  been  enacted,  and  might 
prepare  itself  for  the  more  profound  horrors  to 
come.  Usually  there  was  an  interval  of  time 
between  the  acts— in  most  cases  seven  years — 
duringwhich  the  performers  neither  changed  their 
linen  nor  grew  any  older.  This  was  probably 
owing  to  the  joyous  efforts  of  those  who  enacted 
the  interlude,  which  was  invariably  composed  of 
songs  and  dances.  Of  such  material  as  these 
shall  part  of  this  interlude  be  composed ;  strik- 
ing out  the  songs,  however,  and  introducing 
flowers  in  their  stead,  as  being  infinitely  more 
innocent  and  graceful  than  the  gross  and  impure 
lessons  taught  by  the  popular  songs  of  the  day, 
which  unfortunately  flow  too  readily  into  such 
neighborhoods  as  that  of  which  Stoney  Alley 
forms  a  limb.  Such  teaching,  in  its  own  sad 
time,  will  bear  bitter  fruit — nay,  it  is  bearing  it 
even  now,  and  the  poisofaed  branches  are  bend- 
ing beneath  the  weight. 

Blade-o'- Grass  was  very  young ;  but  the  few 
years  she  had  lived  contained  many  imminent 
crises — any  one  of  which,  but  for  some  timely 
act  of  human  kindness,  might  have  put  an  end 
to  her  existence.  But  her  life  had  not  been  all 
shade,  although  it  may  appear  to  you  and  me 
to  have  been  so :  there  were  lights  in  it,  there 
were  times  when  she  enjoyed.  You  and  I  stand 
in  the  sun,  and  contemplate  with  sadness  our 
fellow-creatures  struggling  and  living  in  the  dark. 
But  it  is  not  dark  to  them,  as  it  is  to  us ;  they 
were  born  in  it,  they  live  in  it,  they  are  used  to 
it.  Such  sunlight  as  we  enjoy,  and  are,  I  hope, 
thankful  for,  might  make  them  drunk. 

Said  Tom  Beadle  one  day  to  Blade-o'-Grass, 

"1  say,  Bladergrass,  why  don't  yer  do  some- 
thin',  and  make  a  few  coppers  ?" 

And  Blade-o'-Grass  very  naturally  answered, 

"What  shall  I  do,  Tom?" 

Tom  was  prepared  with  his  answer. 

"Lookee  'ere:  why  don't  you  be  a  flower- 
gal?" 

"Oh,  Tom!"  exclaimed  Blade-o'-Grass,  her 
face  flushing,  her  heart  beating,  at  the  prospect 
of  heaven  held  out  to  her.  "  A  flower-gal,  Tom ! 
A  flower-gal !     Oh,  don't  I  wish  I  could  be !" 

"You'd  'ave  to  wash  yer  face,  yer  know," 


said  Tom,  regarding  the  dirty  face  of  Blade-o'- 
Grass  from  a  business  point  of  view,  "  and  put 
a  clean  frock  on." 

Down  to  zero  went  the  hopes  of  Blade-o'- 
Grass.  A  clean  face  she  might  have  compassed. 
But  a  clean  frock !  That  meant  a  new  frock,  of 
course.  Blade-o'-Grass  had  never  had  a  new 
frock  in  her  life.  A  new  frock !  She  had  never 
had  any  thing  new — not  even  a  new  boot-lace. 
Despair  was  in  her  face.  Tom  saw  it,  and 
said, 

"Don't  be  down  in  the  mug,  Bladergrass. 
We'll  see  if  it  can't  be  done  some'ow. " 

What  a  hero  Tom  was  in  her  eyes ! 

"Oh,  Tom,"  she  cried,  "if  I  could  be  a 
flower-gal — if  I  could!  I've  seen  'em  at  the 
Royal  Igschange" — she  was  pretty  well  acquaint- 
ed with  that  locality  by  this  time — "and  don't 
they  look  prime!"  She  twined  her  fingers  to- 
gether nervously.  "  They've  all  got  clean  faces 
and  nice  dresses.     Oh,  'ow  'appy  they  must  be !" 

"  And  they  make  lots  o'  money,"  said  Tom. 

"Do  they  ?    Oh,  don't  I  wish  I  was  them !" 

"  And  they  go  to  theaytres." 

"Do  they?  Oh,  don't  I  wish  I  could  go  to 
the  theaytre !" 

"  There's  Poll  Buttons.  Why,  two  year  ago, 
Bladergrass,  she  was  raggeder  nor  you.  And 
now  she  comes  out — she  does  come  out,  I  can 
tell  yer!  She  sells  flowers  at  the  Royal  Igs- 
change, and  she  looks  as  'appy — as  'appy" — 
Tom's  figures  of  speech  and  similes  were  invari- 
ably failures — "  as  'appy  as  can  be.  Why,  I  see 
her  the  other  night  at  the  Standard,  and  she  was 
in  the  pit.  There  was  a  feller  with  her  a-suckin* 
a  stick.  Didn't  she  look  proud !  And  I  'eerd 
Bill  Britton  say  as  how  he  saw  her  at  'Ighbury 
Barn  last  Sunday  with  another  feller  a-suckin'  a 
stick." 

"  Do  all  the  swells  suck  sticks,  Tom?"  asked 
Blade-o'-Grass,  innocently. 

"All  the  real  tip-toppers  do,"  answered  Tom. 

"Perhaps  there's  somethin'  nice  in  the  knobs," 
suggested  Blade-o'-Grass. 

"  Perhaps ;  but  I  don't  think  it.  You  see,  it 
looks  swellish,  Bladergrass." 

"  If  you  'ad  a  stick,  would  you  suck  it,  Tom?" 

"  I  think  I  should,"  replied  Tom,  after  a  little 
consideration  ;  "  and  I'd  'ave  one  with  a  large 
knob.  They're  all  the  go."  Then  Tom  came 
back  to  the  subject  of  Poll  Buttons.  "  She  makes 
a  'eap  o'  money.  Why,  I  'eerd  tell  as  'ow  she  sells 
crocuses  and  wilets  for  a  tanner  a  bunch  at  first. 
The  swells  buy  a  bunch  of  wilets,  and  then  she 
coaxes  'em,  and  ses  as  'ow  wilets  and  crocuses 
ought  to  go  together,  and  she  uses  'er  eyes  and 
smiles  sweet.     Stand  up,  Bladergi-ass !" 


BLADE.  O'- GRASS. 


45 


Blade-o'-Grass  stood  up,  and  Tom  Beadle  scru- 
tinized her. 

"Poll  Buttons  is  a  reg'lar  beauty,  they  say. 
But  I  wish  I  may  die  if  you  won't  be  a  reg'larer 
beauty  when  you're  as  old  as  Poll  is. " 

"  Shall  I,  Tom  ?  Shall  I  ?"  And  the  eyes  of 
Blade-o'-Grass  sparkled,  and  a  bright  color  came 
into  her  cheeks.  Even  in  her  ragged  frock,  and 
with  her  dirty  face,  she  looked  pretty.  "Then 
I  shall  get  a  tanner  a  bunch  for  my  crocuses  and 
wilets,  and  when  the  roses  comes  in,  I'll— I'll — " 
But  her  voice  trailed  oflf  as  she  looked  at  her 
ragged  frock,  and  her  lips  trembled,  and  the  lit- 
tle glimpse  of  heaven  that  lay  in  the  imaginary 
basket  of  flowers  faded  utterly  away.  • 

"Don't  take  on  so,  Bladergrass,"  said  Tom 
Beadle;  "who  knows?  I  may 'ave  a  bit  o' 
luck.  And  if  I  do,  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  don't 
set  you  up  as  a  flower-gal !  You  jist  keep  up 
your  'art,  and  wait  a  bit." 

And  one  day  Tom  Beadle  really  went  to  Jim- 
my Virtue's  leaving-shop,  and  asked  the  price 
of  a  new  cotton  frock,  which,  after  much  bar- 
gaining, he  bought  for  two  shillings  and  four- 
pence. 

"Who's  it  for,  Tom?"  asked  Jimmy,  testing 
the  coins  before  he  delivered  the  frock  to  Tom. 
"  Got  a  new  sweet'art  ?" 

"  It's  for  Bladergrass,"  replied  Tom,  compla- 
cently. "I'm  a-goin'  to  set  her  up  as  a  flower- 
gal.  I  promised  'er  I  would  when  I  'ad  a  bit  o' 
luck." 

"  And  you've  'ad  a  bit  o'  luck  ?" 

"Yes,  a  reg'lar  slice." 

"  How  was  it,  Tom  ?"  • 

"Arks  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies," 
responded  Tom,  saucily,  walking  away  with  his 
precious  purchase. 

Neither  will  we  be  too  curious  about  how  the 
means  were  acquired  which  enabled  Tom  to  give 
Blade-o'-Grass  an  honest  start  in  life. 

That  first  new  common  cotton  dress !  What 
joy  and  delight  stirred  the  heart  of  Blade-o'- 
Grass  as  she  surveyed  it !  She  devoured  it  with 
her  eyes,  and  was  as  delicate  in  handling  it  as  if 
its  texture  had  been  of  the  finest  silk.  All  that 
she  could  say  was,  "  Oh,  Tom !  oh,  Tom  !"  She 
threw  her  arms  round  Tom's  neck,  and  kissed 
him  a  hundred  times ;  and  Tom  felt  how  sweet 
it  is  to  give.  But  Tom's  goodness  did  not  end 
here.  He  conducted  Blade-o'-Grass  to  a  room 
where  she  could  wash  herself  and  array  herself 
in  her  new  dress.  She  came  out  of  that  room 
transformed.  She  had  smoothed  her  hair  and 
washed  her  face,  and  the  dress  became  her.  She 
smiled  gratefully  at  Tom  when  she  presented 
herself  to  him. 


"  I'm  blessed  if  Poll  Buttons  '11  be  able  to  'old 
a  candle  to  you !"  exclaimed  Tom,  admiringly ; 
and  Blade-o'-Grass  thrilled  with  joy. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Mr.  Merrywhistle, 
walking  near  the  Royal  Exchange  one  day,  saw 
a  clean  little  girl,  with  a  basket  of  humble  flowers 
on  her  arm,  and  a  bright  little  face  looking  ear- 
nestly at  him. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  the  benevolent 
gentleman.     ' '  Blade-o'-Grass ! " 

"Yes,  Sir,  if  you  please.  Tom's  set  me  up  as 
a  flower-gal." 

"Tom!" 

"Tom  Beadle,  Sir;  'im  as  you  guv  a  shillin* 
to  once,  and  as  come  along  o'  me  when  we  'ad 
that  jolly  dinner." 

' '  Dear  me !  Dear  me ! "  said  Mr.  Merrywhis- 
tle, honest  pleasure  beaming  in  his  eyes.  "And 
Tom's  set  you  up,  eh  ?  And  you're  getting  an 
honest  living,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  Sir,  if  you  please.  Sir.  Do  you  want  a 
flower  for  your  button-'ole.  Sir  ?  'Ere's  a  white 
rose,  Sir — a  reg'lar  beauty ;  and  'ere's  a  piece  o' 
mingyonet  to  show  it  ofl*,  Sir,  and  a  bit  o'  maiden 
'air  to  back  it  up." 

And  before  Mr.  Merrywhistle  knew  where  he 
was,  he  had  put  the  flowers  in  his  button-hole, 
aftd,  instructed  by  Blade-o'-Grass,  had  fastened 
them  with  a  pin  she  took  out  of  her  frock.  It 
was  thirty  years  since  he  had  worn  a  flower,  the 
good  old  fellow !  and  as  he  looked  upon  them 
now,  there  came  to  him  the  memory  of  a  few 
sunny  months  when  he  was  young.  The  crowds 
of  people,  the  busy  streets,  the  noise  and  tiu- 
moil,  vanished  from  sight  and  sense ;  and  for 
one  brief  moment — which  might  have  been  an 
hour,  the  vision  was  so  distinct — he  saw  fair 
fingers  fastening  a  piece  of  mignonnette  in  his 
coat,  and  a  fair  head  bending  to  his  breast —  It 
was  gone !  But  as  Mr.  Merr}'whistle  awoke  to 
the  busy  hum  about  him,  there  was  a  sweet 
breath  in  his  nostrils,  and  a  dim,  sweet  light  in 
his  eyes.  Most  unwisely  he  gave  Blade-o'-Grass 
a  shilling  for  the  flowers,  and  patted  her  head, 
and  walked  away  ;  while  Blade-o'-Grass  herself, 
almost  fearing  that  the  shilling  was  a  bad  one, 
bit  it  with  her  strong  teeth,  and,  being  satisfied 
of  its  genuineness,  executed  a  double-shufile  on 
the  curb-stone. 

That  very  afternoon  Blade-o'-Grass,  having 
had  a  good  day,  purchased  a  walking-cane  of  a 
street  vendor.  It  was  a  cano  with  the  largest 
knob  he  had  in  his  stock.  This  cane  she  pre- 
sented to  Tom  Beadle  the  same  evening.  Tom 
was  immensely  delighted  with  it.  To  the  ad- 
miration of  Blade-o'-Grass,  he  put  the  knob  in 
his  mouth,  to  the  serious  danger  of  that  fea* 


46 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


ture,  and  comported  himself  as  became  a  tip-top 
swell. 

"You're  a  reg'lar  little  brick,"  said  Tom; 
'**and  I'm  blessed  if  I  don't  take  you  to  the 
theaytre." 

Blade-o'-Grass  jumped  for  joy,  and  clapped 
her  hands.  How  she  had  longed  to  go  to  a 
theatre !  And  now  the  magic  hour  had  come. 
She  had  been  rich  enough  lately  to  pay  two- 
pence a  night  for  a  bed,  and  she  went  to  the 
cheap  lodging-house  she  patronized  and  washed 
her  face  and  combed  her  hair,  and  made  herself 
as  smart  as  she  could.  Tom  Beadle  had  also 
smartened  himself  up,  and  to  the  theatre  they 
went,  arm  in  arm,  he  with  the  knob  of  tiie  stick 
in  his  mouth,  and  she,  in  her  rags,  as  proud  as 
any  peacock. 

In  what  words  can  the  awe  and  wonder  of 
Blade-o'-Grass  be  described  ?  She  had  her  own 
ideas  of  things,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find 
the  interior  of  the  theatre  so  different  from  what 
she  had  imagined.  Boxes,  pit,  and  gallery  she 
knew  there  were.  But  she  had  set  down  in  her 
mind  that  the  boxes  were  veritable  boxes,  in 
which  the  people  were  shut,  with  little  eye-holes 
to  peep  through ;  and  the  pit  she  had  imagined 
as  a  large  dark  space  dug  out  of  the  earth,  very 
low  down,  where  the  people  were  all  huddled 
together,  and  had  to  look  up  to  see  what  was 
going  on.  It  was  to  the  pit  they  went,  and  for 
some  time  Blade-o'-Grass  was  too  astonished  to 
speak.  A  very,  very  large  O  would  fitly  de- 
scribe her  condition.  Tom  Beadle,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  quite  composed:  theatres  were  but 
ordinary  places  to  him.  But  used  up  as  he  was 
to  the  pleasures  of  the  town,  he  derived  a  new 
pleasure  from  the  contemplation  of  the  wonder- 
ment of  Blade-o'-Grass. 

"Oh,  Tom!  oh,  Tom!"  she  whispered,  in  ec- 
stasy, edging  closer  to  him,  when  at  last  she 
found  courago  jo  use  her  tongue.  It  was  a 
large  theatre,  v/ith  a  great  deal  of  gold-leaf 
about  it ;  and  the  audience  were  evidently  bent 
upon  enjoying  themselves,  and  vehemently  ap- 
plauded at  every  possible  opportunity.  Thus, 
when  the  lights  are  turned  up,  and  a  bright  blaze 
breaks  out  upon  the  living  sea  of  faces,  there  is 
much  clapping  of  hands,  and  much  stamping 
of  feet,  and  other  marks  of  approval.  When 
the  musicians  straggle  into  the  orchestra  they 
are  also  vehemently  applauded  ;  but  those  "  high 
and  mighty"  might  have  been  by  themselves  in 
the  Desert  of  Sahara  for  all  the  heed  they  pay 
to  the  audience.  The  occupiers  of  the  gallery 
are  very  noisy  in  their  demonstrations,  and  issue 
their  commands  with  stentoiian  lungs.  "Now, 
then ;  scrape  up,  catgut !"    "  Hoo-o-o-o  !  scrape 


up!  up  with  the  rag!"  with  cries  and  shouts 
and  whistles,  which  strike  fresh  wonderment  to 
the  soul  of  Blade-o'-Grass.  She  is  not  fright- 
ened at  the  noise ;  for  even  Tom  Beadle  puts 
his  two  little  fingers  to  the  corners  of  his  lips, 
and  adds  shrill  whistles  to  the  general  confusion 
— in  the  perfoimance  of  which  duty  he  stretches 
his  mouth  to  such  an  extent  that,  as  a  feature, 
it  becomes  a  hideous  mockery.  But  at  length 
the  band  strikes  up  with  a  crash,  the  sound  of 
which  is  speedily  drowned  in  the  roar  of  delight 
that  follows.  In  due  time — but  not  in  time  to 
satisfy  the  impatient  audience — the  music  ceases, 
and  a  general  shifting  and  rustling  takes  place 
among  the  audience.  A  moment's  breathless 
expectation  follows,  a  cracked  bell  gives  the 
meanest  of  tinkles ;  and  Blade-o'-Grass  bends  a 
little  more  forward  as  that  awful  and  magic 
green  curtain  is  drawn  upward  by  invisible 
hands.  The  piece  that  is  there  and  then  rep- 
resented to  the  wondering  soul  of  Blade-o'- 
Grass  is  a  "strong  domestic  drama,"  as  the 
play-bill  has  it,  and  Blade-o'-Grass  gasps  and 
sobs  and  catches  her  breath  at  the  "striking" 
situations  with  which  the  play  is  filled.  The 
piece  is  a  narration  of  the  struggles  and  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  poorest  class  of  the  community — 
the  class,  indeed,  the  lower  stratum  of  which  is 
occupied  by  just  such  persons  as  Tom  Beadle 
and  Blade-o'-Grass  ;  and  a  curious  commentary 
is  made  on  it  the  next  day  by  Blade-o'-Grass, 
who,  dilating  upon  its  wonders  and  entrance- 
ments,  declares  that  she  "never  seed  sich  a 
thing  in  all  her  born  daj'S."  There  are,  of 
course,  in  the  piece  a  painfully  virtuous  wife,  a 
desperate  villain,  to  whom  murder  is  child's 
play,  a  delirium-tremens  beggar,  a  Good  Young 
Man,  and  a  vilified  Jew ;  and  as  these  charac- 
ters play  their  parts,  Blade-o'-Grass  thrills  and 
quivers  with  delicious  excitement.  Tom  Beadle 
also  enters  into  the  excitement  of  the  represen- 
tation, and  stamps  and  claps  his  hands  and 
whistles  as  vigorously  as  any  one  there.  But 
when  the  "strong  domestic  drama"  is  con- 
cluded, and  the  glories  of  the  burlesque  are  un- 
folded to  the  ravished  senses  of  Blade-o'-Grass, 
then,  indeed,  is  she  in  heaven.  Never  has  she 
conceived  any  thing  so  enchanting  as  this.  It 
is  the  first  fairy-story  that  has  ever  been  pre- 
sented to  her.  How  she  screams  over  the  mean- 
ingless songs !  How  she  devours  with  her  eyes 
the  display  of  female  limbs !  "  Oh,  'ow  lovely, 
Tom !"  she  whispers.  "  Oh,  don't  I  wisli  I  was  / 
them !" 

"You'd  look  as  well  as  any  of  'em,  Blader- 
gra^s,"  says  Tom,  who  knows  every  thing,  "if 
you  was  took  in  'and,  and  if  you  could  darnce." 


BLADE.  O'- GRASS. 


47 


**0h  no,  Tom — oh  no!"  exclaims  Blade-o'- 
Grass.     "I  ain't  got  sich  legs." 

Tom  laughs,  and  whispers  confidentially  that 
"them  legs  ain't  all  their  own.  He  knows  a 
covB  who  knows  a  balley-gal,  and  she  pads  her 
legs  like  one  o'clock."  Blade-o'-Grass,  in  her 
heart  of  hearts,  can't  believe  it ;  but  she  is  too 
much  absorbed  in  the  performance  to  enter  into 
argument.  So  the  pageant  passes  before  her 
eyes  until  all  the  songs  are  sung  and  all  the 
dances  danced ;  and  when  the  curtain  falls  upon 
the  brilliant  last  scene,  she  looks  solemnly  at 
Tom,  and  a  great  sob  escapes  her  because  it  is 
all  over.  She  can  scarcely  repress  her  tears. 
It  is  a  wondrous  night  for  Blade-o'-Grass,  and 
lives  in  her  memory  for  long  afterward.  Tom 
Beadle  proposes  "a  eel  supper,"  and  they  sit 
in  state,  like  the  best  nobles  in  the  land,  in  a 
dirty  box  in  a  dirty  eel-pie  shop ;  and  as  they 
eat  their  eels  off  a  dirty  plate,  with  a  dirty 
spoon  and  fork,  Blade-o'-Grass  looks  up  to  her 
companion  as  to  a  god ;  and  Tom,  noticing  the 
girl's  sparkling  eyes  and  flushed  cheeks,  says, 
with  an  approving  nod,  "I'm  blessed  if  you 
won't  beat  Poll  Buttons  into  fits."  Then  they 
go  home,  and  Blade-o'-Grass  dreams  that  she 
is  an  angel  hanging  from  the  flies. 

That  first  night  at  a  theatre  filled  Blade-o'- 
Grass  wrth  a  new  ambition,  and  her  better  pros- 
pects inspired  her  with  confidence.  She  deter- 
mined to  learn  to  dance. 

You  will,  I  am  sure,  be  amazed  to  hear  that 
eveiy  night  in  Stoney  Alley,  when  the  weather 
was  in  any  way  propitious,  there  was  a  ball — an 
open-air  ball ;  the  orchestra,  an  Italian  organ- 
grinder  ;  the  company,  nearly  all  the  dirty  boys 
and  girls  in  the  neighborhood.  At  a  certain 
hour  every  evening  an  Italian  organ-grinder,  on 
whose  dark  face  a  fixed  expression  of  stolid, 
gloomy  melancholy  for  ever  rested,  mjide  liis  ap- 
pearance in  Stoney  Alley ;  and,  as  if  he  were  a 
lost  soul,  and  this  agony  was  his  penance,  ground 
out  of  his  aftiicted  organ  a  string  of  waltzes  and 
polkas  and  quadrilles  so  inexpressibly  dismal 
that  the  very  dogs  howled  in  despair  and  fled. 
But  directly  the  first  note  sounded — and  that 
first  note  always  came  out  with  a  wail — the  chil- 
dren, from  two  years  old  and  upward,  began  to 
congregate,  and  without  any  courtesying,  or  bow- 
ing, or  engaging  of  partners,  the  strangest  ball 
commenced  that  ever  was  seen.  Girls  with  ba- 
bies in  their  arms  glided  round  and  round  in  the 
entrancing  waltz ;  children  who  could  scarcely 
toddle  toddled  round ;  and  young  ladies  with- 
out incumbrances  clasped  each  other  by  the 
waist,  and  spun  round  in  a  state  of  beatific 
bliss.     When  the  waltz  music  ended  with  a 


groan,  and  the  polka  commenced  with  a  wheeze, 
the  big  children  hopped  and  the  toddlers  toddled 
in  perfect  contentment.  Then  came  the  qua- 
drilles, in  which  many  new  figures  were  in- 
troduced, which  Belgravia  might  have  profited 
by.  But  the  strangest  dance  of  all  was  a  Scotch 
reel,  which,  by  some  unearthly  means,  had  got 
into  this  decrepit  organ,  and  which,  being  set  to 
work  by  the  inexorable  handle,  came  out  of  its 
hiding-place  spasmodically,  and  with  stitches  in 
its  side.  It  was  a  sight  to  remember  to  see  these 
ragged  children  dance  this  Scotch  reel,  with  their 
toes  up  to  their  knees,  their  right  arms  elevated 
above  their  heads,  and  their  left  hands  stuck  in 
their  sides  as  if  they  grew  there.  Blade-o'- 
Grass  had  never  had  courage  to  join  in  the  rev- 
els ;  she  had  been  too  ragged  and  forlorn  to  claim 
equality  with  even  this  ragged  and  forlorn  troop. 
But  now  her  prospects  were  biightening,  and 
her  ambition  was  roused.  The  very  evening 
following  that  on  which  she  visited  the  theatre 
she  boldly  joined  the  dancers.  And  there  she 
hopped  and  twirled  and  glided  until  the  music 
ceased ;  and  every  evening  thereafter  she  made 
her  appearance  at  the  entertainment  as  punctu- 
ally as  some  people  attend  their  places  of  worship, 
and  with  more  devotion  than  many.  She  was 
looked  upon  as  a  guest  of  high  distinction  at  the 
ball,  for  she  was  liberal  with  her  farthings  and 
half-pence.  In  course  of  time  she  became  one 
of  the  very  best  dancers  in  the  alley,  and  often 
and  often  dreamed  that  she  was  a  ballet-girl,  and 
was  twirling  before  an  admiring  audience,  in  the 
shortest  of  short  spangled  skirts,  and  the  pink- 
est of  pink  legs. 

These  were  the  happiest  days  she  had  ever 
known.  Now  and  then  the  tiger  set  up  its  claims, 
and  was  not  satisfied ;  but  these  occasions  were 
very  rare.  She  went  to  the  theatre  often,  and 
sometimes  treated  Tom  Beadle,  who  did  not 
show  a  stupid  pride  and  independence.  She 
sold  flowers  in  the  season,  and  lived  how  she 
could  when  there  were  no  flowers  to  sell.  "I 
wish  they  growed  all  the  yeer  round,"  she  said 
to  Tom  many  and  many  a  time.  She  and  Tom 
were  always  together,  and  it  was  understood  that 
they  had  "  taken  up  with  one  another." 

This  being  an  interlude,  in  which  the  promise 
set  forth  has  been  faithfully  carried  out — for 
dances  and  flowers  have  been  introduced  in  pro- 
fusion— it  will  perhaps  be  considered  out  of  place 
to  mention  that,  excepting  that  she  knew  how  to 
speak  an  intelligible  language,  Blade-o'-Grass 
was  as  ignorant  of  morals  and  religion  as  if  she 
had  been  a  four-footed  animal.  But  it  is  neces- 
sary to  state  this,  or  you  might  condemn  her 
unjustly,  and  look  down  upon  her  uncharitably. 


48 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


And  while  she  grew  in  deeper  and  deeper  igno- 
rance, how  the  great  world  labored  in  which  she 
lived  and  moved  and  had  her  being !  One  sec- 
tion was  in  agony  because  a  man  of  science  had 
by  his  writings  thrown  doubt  on  the  grand  story 
of  Creation,  and  had  attempted  to  prove  that 
Adam  and  Eve  were  not  created;  and  nine- 
tenths  of  the  people  shrunk  in  horror  from  a  man 
who  denied  the  truth  of  Biblical  miracles.  Yet 
one  and  all  believed  in  a  future  state — a  better 


PART  II. 


THE   PRISON   WALL. 


Seven  years  have  passed,  and  the  curtain  rises 
upon  a  high  gloomy  stone-wall.  Grouped  about 
the  pavement  which  skirts  the  wall  are  nearly  a 
score  of  persons  waiting  in  a  state  of  painful  ex- 
pectancy. They  are  waiting  for  friends  and 
relatives,  and  this  gloomy  stone-wall  incloses  a 
prison. 


'SUE   UOLDLY  JOINEJJ  THE  PANOEBS. 


one  than  this,  a  higher  one  than  this,  a  holier 
one  than  this— to  be  earned  by  living  a  good  life, 
and  by  doing  unto  others  as  we  would  wish  oth- 
ers should  do  unto  us.  And  Blade-o'-Grass  had 
never  raised  her  eyes  and  hands  to  God;  she 
had  never  said  a  prayer. 


Although  it  is  broad  day,  the  aspect  of  the  scene 
is  inexpressibly  depressing.  It  is  September; 
but  the  treacherous  month  has  crept  upon  No- 
vember, and  stolen  one  of  its  cheerless  days,  when 
dull  sky  and  dull  atmosphere  conspire  to  send 
the  spirits  down  to  zero.  Not  that  these  unhap- 
py mortals  require  any  outward  influence  to  ren- 
der them  miserable ;  their  countenances  and  at- 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


49 


titude  sliow  that  clearly  enough.  There  are 
among  them  young  women,  almost  children,  and 
they  stand  about  the  prison  Avith  pale  faces  and 
clasped  hands,  with  eyes  cast  down  to  the  earth. 
Th'ey  exchange  but  few  words ;  they  have  suf- 
ficient special  occupation  in  their  thoughts  to 
render  them  indisposed  for  conversation.  They 
are  poorly  clad,  and  some  of  them  shiver  as  the 
damp  wind  steals  round  the  massive  wall  which 
shuts  out  hope. 


and  the  shriveled  hands  that  peep  from  out  tha 
folds  of  a  faded  shawl,  it  might  reasonably  have 
been  supposed  it  covers  the  limbs  of  a  child. 
The  bonnet  has  moved  several  times  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  girl-woman,  as  if  its  owner  were  cu- 
rious about  her  companion ;  but  the  girl  takes 
no  notice.  At  length  a  piping  voice  asks,  "Are 
you  waiting  for  some  one,  my  dear  ?" 

The  girl  answqpg  "Yes,"  but  does  not  look  at 
the  questioner. 


"near  to  TUK  PBIBON   DOOn  ARE   A  YOCNQ   AND  AN  OLD   WOMAN." 


Near  to  the  prison  door  are  a  young  and  an 
old  woman — one  seventeen  years  of  age  on  her 
last  birthday,  the  other  seventy.  The  young 
woman  has  no  covering  on  her  head ;  the  old 
woman  wears  an  ancient  bonnet,  which  was  the 
fashion  once  upon  a  time.  Her  little  wrinkled 
face  is  almost  hidden  in  the  bonnet,  and  her  an- 
cient cotton  dress  falls  in  such  straight  lines 
about  her  that,  but  for  the  pale,  wrinkled  face 
D 


"Who  for,  my  dear?" 

No  answer. 

"You  needn't  mind  me,"  pipes  the  old  wom- 
an ;  "I  don't  mean  any  harm  ;  and  it  does  my 
old  heart  good  to  talk.  Perhaps  you've  got  a 
mother  of  your  own." 

"Mother !"  echoes  the  girl,  somewhat  bitterly, 
and  yet  with  a  certain  plaintiveness.  "  No,  I've 
got  no  mother ;  I  never  'ad  one  as  I  knows  of." 


60 


BLADE -O- GRASS. 


"Poor  dear,  poor  dear!  Come,  my  dear, 
talk  kindly  to  an  old  woman  who  might  be  your 
grandmother.  Ay,  I  might,  my  dear.  I'm  sev- 
enty-one come  the  10th  of  November,  and  I'm 
waiting  for  my  daughter.  You've  got  a  long 
time  before  you,  my  dear,  before  you  come  to 
my  age." 

"  Seventy-one ! "  exclaims  the  girl.  "7  shall 
never  be  seventy-one.  I  shouldn't  like  to  be. 
What's  your  daughter  in  for  ?  How  old  is  she  ? 
She  must  be  older  than  me." 

"  She's  thirty,  my  dear,  and  she's  in  for  beg- 
ging.    What's  yours  in  for  ?" 

"My  what  in  for?"  shai*ply  and  sullenly. 

"  Your  friend.  You  needn't  be  so  sharp  with 
an  old  woman  like  me.  You  may  h6  a  mother 
yourself  one  day,  poor  dear!" 

The  girl  turns  with  a  gasp — it  may  be  of  joy 
or  pain — and  takes  the  old  woman's  hand  and 
begs  her  pardon. 

Her  friend  is  in  for  worse  than  beggin',  the  girl 
says,  and  relapses  into  silence,  retaining  the  old 
woman's  hand  in  hers,  however,  for  a  little  while.' 

Many  persons  pass  this  way  and  that,  but  few 
bestow  a  second  glance  upon  the  group;  and 
even  if  pity  enters  the  heart  of  one  and  another, 
it  does  not  take  practical  shape,  and  in  its  passive 
aspect  it  is,  as  is  well  known,  but  cold  charity. 
One  man,  however,  lingers  in  passing,  walks  a 
few  steps,  and  hesitates.  He  has  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  face  that  he  recognizes,  and  it  is  evident 
that  he  is  distressed  by  it.  He  turns  boldly,  and 
pauses  before  the  forms  of  the  old  woman  and 
the  girl. 

"Blade-o'-Grass!"  he  exclaims. 

She  raises  her  head,  and  looks  him  in  the  face. 
No  shame,  no  fear,  no  consciousness  of  degrada- 
tion, is  in  her  gaze.  She  drops  him  a  courtesy, 
and  turns  her  face  toward  the  prison  doors. 

Girl  as  she  is,  she  is  a  woman,  and  well-look- 
ing. Her  dress  is  of  the  poorest,  and  she  is  not 
too  tidy ;  but  the  grace  of  youth  is  upon  her. 
It  is  not  upon  all  who  are  brought  up  as  she  has 
been.  But  she  has  this  charm,  and  good  looks 
as  well ;  and  she  is  grateful  for  them,  for  she 
likes  to  be  called  pretty.  Remember  that,  at 
that  momentous  period  in  the  life  of  Blade-o'- 
Grass  when  her  future  hung  on  a  chance,  Mrs. 
Manning  "kept  the  prettiest  one,  the  one  with 
the  dimple." 

What  is  it  that  causes  the  gi-avest  of  expres- 
sions to  pass  into  the  countenance  of  Mr,  Mer- 
ry whistle  as  Blade-o'-Gras8  looks  up  ?  He  does 
not  say ;  but  the  grave  expression  remains  upon 
his  face  during  the  interview.  He  has  not  seen 
her  since  the  spring.  Somehow  or  other,  he  lost 
sight  of  her.   Years  ago,  when  Tom  Beadle  "  set 


her  up"  as  a  flower-girl,  he  had  a  strong  inclina- 
tion to  do  some  substantial  good  for  her — to  re- 
move her  from  the  associations  by  which  she  was 
surrounded,  and  which  dragged  her  down  to  the 
lowest  level.  But,  in  the  first  place,  he  could 
ill  aflbrd  it ;  and,  in  the  second,  when  he  had 
spoken  of  his  wish  to  Jimmy  Virtue,  that  worthy 
had  asked  him  if  he  thought  he  could  take  all 
the  world's  work  upon  his  one  pair  of  shoulders. 
"And  after  all,"  Jimmy  Virtue  had  said,  "isn't 
the  gal  gettin'  a  honest  livin'  ?" 

The  old  woman  peers  into  Mr.  Merrywhistle's 
face,  and  as  her  ancient  bonnet  goes  up  iii  the 
air,  it  seems  capacious  enough  to  bury  her  whole 
body  in.  Mr.  Merry  whistle  gives  her  a  kind 
look,  and  addresses  himself  to  Blade-o'-Grass. 

* '  This  is  not  a  fit  place  for  you — "  He  is  about 
to  add,  "my  poor  child,"  but  her  womanly  ap- 
pearance checks  him. 

"Ain't  it?"  she  replies,  with  a  smile  on  her 
lips  that  is  not  pleasant  to  see.    ' '  What  is,  then  ?" 

He  is  surprised  at  her  reckless  manner. 
"Have  you  business  here?  Are  you  waiting 
for  any  one?" 

"Yes." 

"For  whom?" 

"Ah,  that's  what  I  asked  her,"  pipes  the  old 
■woman  ;   "  but  she  wouldn't  tell  me." 

"I'm  waitin'  for  Tom,"  she  says,  answering 
him. 

"Tom  Beadle?" 

"Yes,  Tom  Beadle." 

"Is  he  in  prison,  then?"  he  asks,  very  gentl}'. 

"Yes ;  he's  been  doin' a  month." 

"What  for?" 

"  What  does  it  matter?    Priggin' — any  thin'. " 

Perceiving  that  Blade-o'-Grass  does  not  wish 
to  pursue  the  conversation,  Mr.  Merrywhistle 
steps  aside,  sad  at  heart;  but  lingers,  looking 
pityingly  at  Blade-o'-Grass.  As  he  does  so  a 
clock  strikes  the  hour,  and  the  eyes  of  the  ex- 
pectant group  turn  eagerly  to  the  prison  door, 
which  presently  opens.  Six  or  seven  persons 
walk  out.  The  women  blink  their  eyes  as  they 
come  into  the  light ;  the  men  shake  themselves 
like  dogs ;  some  raise  their  hands  to  their  brows, 
and  look  about  them  as  Gulliver  might  have 
done  when  he  found  himself  in  a  strange  land. 
The  little  old  woman  hastens  to  her  daughter,  a 
patient-looking  woman,  and  for  a  moment  two 
faces  are  hidden  in  the  ancient  bonnet.  One 
man,  who  has  seven  or  eight  friends  waiting  for 
him,  shakes  his  fist  at  the  prison,  and  kicks  the 
stone-wall  savagely. 

"  That's  how  I'd  like  to  serve  the  guvner  of 
that  there  cussed  hole!"  he  exclaims.  "Give 
me  something  to  drink,  or  I  shall  choke!" 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


51 


Another  man  looks  around  with  a  vacant 
stare :  there  is  no  one  to  meet  him.  With 
something  like  a  sigh  his  head  sinks  into  his 
shoulders,  and  he  slinks  away,  hugging  the  wall 
as  he  goes. 

The  last  to  come  out  is  Tom  Beadle.  Blade- 
o'-Grass  is  by  his  side  in  an  instant. 

*'  Gome  along,  Tom,"  she  says,  clinging  fond- 
ly to  his  arm,  and  pulling  his  face  down  to  hers 
and  kissing  it;  "I've  got  something  nice  to  eat 
at  home." 

"You're  a  good  sort,  Bladergrass,"  says  the 
thief.  "Let's  get  away  from  this  place  quick, 
and  go  home." 

Home !  Yes,  to  Stoney  Alley,  no't  twenty  yards 
from  where  her  mother  had  died — a  room  in 
an  attic,  which  had  been  thoroughly  cleaned  and 
made  tidy  for  the  return  of  the  prodigal.  No 
furniture  to  speak  of;  a  fire,  and  a  saucepan  on 
the  hob ;  a  mug  of  beer,  a  flat  bottle  with  gin  in 
it;  one  chair  and  a  stool  and  a  table;  a  bed  in 
the  corner. 

Tom  surveys  the  room  with  satisfaction  beam- 
ing in  his  eyes.  Blade-o'-Grass  looks  at  him, 
and  joy  breaks  like  sunlight  over  her  face  be- 
cause he  is  pleased. 

"Drink  some  beer,  Tom." 

He  takes  a  deep  drauglit,  puts  the  jug  down, 
heaves  a  long  breath,  and  repeats, 

' '  You're  a  real  good  sort,  Bladergrass.  Give 
us  another  kiss,  old  gal!" 


ONE   OF  MANY   HAPPY   NIGHTS. 

But  that  the  gray  streaks  are  thickening  in 
Mrs.  Silver's  hair,  and  that  her  husband  is  fast 
growing  bald,  it  might  have  been  but  yesterday 
that  we  were  sitting  with  tliem  in  the  cozy  par- 
lor in  Buttercup  Square.  Every  thing  inani- 
mate is  the  same  as  it  was  seven  years  ago,  and 
does  not  appear  to  have  grown  any  older  or 
shabbier;  the  very  cuckoo  in  the  clock  retains 
its  youth,  and  its  tones,  as  it  asserts  itself  to  be 
the  great  "I  am,"  are  as  fresh  as  ever  they  were. 
Hark!  it  is  speaking  now,  and  "Cuck-oo!"  is- 
sues six  times  from  its  throat,  sparklingly,  as  if 
defying  time.  It  is  six  o'clock.  The  days  are 
drawing  in,  and  it  is  dark  enough  for  lights. 
But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Silver  sit  in  the  dusk  before 
the  fire,  talking  of  the  matters  nearest  to  their 
hearts.  Their  married  life  has  been  a  happy 
one — with  clouds  in  it,  of  coarse.  Natural  griefs 
and  sorrows  have  come  to  them,  as  to  others. 
At  first  a  storm  threatened  their  future,  but  it 
did  not  burst  over  them.  The  exercise  of  kind- 
ly impulse ;  the  wise  and  good  desire  to  oocept 


'  the  inevitable,  and  to  make  the  loneliness  of  their 
,  lives  a  means  of  happiness  to  others ;  their  de- 
[  pendence  on  one  another,  and  mutual  love  and 
faith ;  their  recognition,  in  their  every  action, 
of  higher  duties  of  life  than  are  generally  ac- 
knowledged in  practice — turned  the  storm  to 
sunshine,  brought  happiness  to  them.  If  they 
were  to  die  now,  they  would  be  blessed  with  th* 
happy  assurance  that  their  lives  had  been  pro- 
ductive of  good  to  others.  So  might  we  all  live  ; 
so  should  we  all  live.  The  world  would  be  the 
better  for  it.  No  man  or  woman  is  unblessed 
with  the  want  of  continual  opportunity  for  doing 
good  or  being  kind. 

"Christmas  will  very  soon  be  here  once 
more,"  says  Mr.  Silver. 

"  We'll  have  a  merry  gathering,"  Mrs.  Silver 
answers.  "There  will  be  changes  before  the 
next  comes  round." 

' '  Yes ;  our  little  children  are  men  and  women 
now." 

"Good  men  and  women,  thank  God!" 

"Wife,"  he  says,  "I  have  thought  many 
times  of  your  words  when  I  brought  little  Char- 
ley home  twenty-three  years  ago.  The  child 
was  lying  in  your  lap,  and  you  said,  'Perhaps 
this  is  the  reason  why  God  has  given  us  no  chil- 
dren.'" 

She  looks  at  him  with  a  tender  light  in  her 
eyes.  Between  these  two  love  does  not  show  it- 
self in  words,  but  in  ministering  to  each  other 
unselfishly. 

"They  have  been  a  blessing  to  us,  dear,"  she 
saj's.  "Our  household  will  be  smaller  present- 
ly. Charley  and  Ruth,  I  think,  are  fond  of  each 
other.     He  brings  her  home  now  every  night." 

"What  did  Charley  earn  last  week?" 

"Thirty-eight  shillings." 

"  Is  that  sufficient  to  marry  on  ?"' 

"Quite  sufficient,  and  to  spare;  and  Charley 
has  money  put  by  to  start  with.  They  must  live 
near  us.  Charley  would  hke  to,  I  know,  and 
Ruth  too ;  but  it  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  of 
these  things  by-and-by." 

"  Carry  your  mind  ten  years  on,  my  dear." 

"Well,  I  do  so." 

"What  do  you  see?" 

"If  we  live ?'* 

"If  we  live." 

She  muses  a  little,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"Ourselves  old  people;  Charley  and  Ruth 
happily  married,  with  children  of  their  own ; 
Mary  married  also,  although  her  prince  is  not 
yet  come,  and  is  a  stranger  to  us.  Richard  will 
go  abroad :  I  can  tell,  by  his  reading  and  con- 
versation, that  his  heart  is  set  upon  it.  And 
Rachel— poor    Rachel! — stopping   sometiriies 


52 


BLADE- O'- GRASS. 


with  us,  and  sometimes — nearly  always,  indeed 
—with  Ruth  and  Chai'ley.  I  can  see  myself 
with  hair  perfectly  white,  and  you  with  only  a 
fringe  of  white  hair  round  your  head." 

He  laughs  softly  and  pleasantly,  and  caresses 
her  hand. 

*'I  can  see  nothing  but  happiness,  dear." 

They  sit  quietly  before  the  fire,  and  the  dark- 
ness grows  deeper.  The  door  opens,  and  Mr. 
Merrywhistle  enters  softly. 

"Don't  stir,"  he  says;  "and  don't  light  the 
gas.  I  was  told  you  were  here,  and  I  know  how 
fond  you  are  of  sitting  in  the  dark." 

It  was  indeed  a  favorite  habit  with  them  when 
they  were  alone.  He  sits  by  them  in  silence ; 
for  a  minute  or  two  no  word  is  spoken.  Then 
Mrs.  Silver  places  her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"  I  understand,  I  understand,"  he  says ;  "you 
are  waiting  for  me  to  speak.  You  always  know 
when  I  am  in  trouble. " 

"  How  can  I  help  knowing  ?  Your  face  I  can 
not  see,  but  I  hear  your  heart  in  your  voice." 

"  Tell  me :  is  it  a  good  thing  to  make  other 
persons'  troubles  ours  ?" 

"  What  is  sympathy  for?"  she  answers,  in  re- 
turn. 

"I  have  spoken  to  you  now  and  again  of  a 
child — a  girl — whom  I  have  seen  occasionally — " 

"The  flower-girl?" 

"Yes,  the  flower-girl;  the  girl  whom  I  met 
for  the  first  time  in  the  company  of  a  boy  who 
deceived  me — a  boy  who  told  me  the  most  un- 
blushing 1 — stories,  and  who  yet  had  some  hu- 
manity in  him." 

"  That  is  many  years  ago.  The  girl  must  be 
almost  a  woman  now." 

"  She  is  a  woman,  God  help  her ! — more  wom- 
an than  her  years  warrant.  I  should  think  she 
Is  about  the  same  age  as  Ruth.  And  it  comes 
upon  me  again,  that  fancy,  when  I  speak  of  Ruth 
and  think  of  this  poor  girl." 

"  Yes ;  you  have  told  us  there  is  a  singular 
likeness  between  them." 

"It  is  striking — wonderfully  striking.  But 
there  can  be  nothing  in  it ;  for  Ruth,  you  have 
said,  was  the  only  child  of  a  poor  woman  who 
died  a  fortnight  after  the  little  thing  was  bom." 

"Yes,  my  friend." 

' '  So  that  it  is  pure  accident ;  but  the  fancy 
remains,  for  all  that.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
sad  story  that  this  poor  Blade-o'-Grass  told  me 
of  the  tiger  that  worried  her,  and  clamored  for 
food.  It  was  hunger,  my  dear  friends,  hunger. 
I  shall  never  forget  her  notion  that  Hallelujah 
came  to  her  while  she  was  asleep,  and  put  baked 
potatoes  in  her  lap.     I  shall  never  forget  my 


pleasure  when  I  first  saw  her  with  a  basket  of 
flowers,  and  bought  a  flower  of  her.  But  I  have 
told  you  of  these  things  before,  and  here  I  am 
babbling  of  them  again,  like  an  old  man  that  has 
lost  his  wits." 

"Never  mind,  friend  ;  go  on." 

"  I  saw  poor  Blade-o'-Grass  this  morning.  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  many  months.  I  had  occa- 
sion to  pass  by  a  certain  prison  early,  and  I  saw 
her,  with  a  dozen  others,  waiting  outside.  She 
was  waiting  for  this  boy  that  was — this  man  and 
thief  that  is.  I  lingered  until  the  prison  doors 
were  opened,  and  let  him  and  others  out.  And  j 
when  he  came" — there  were  tears  in  the  old  man's 
voice  as  he  spoke — "and  when  he  came,  this  un- 
happy girl  kissed  him  and  clung  to  him  as  with 
less  shame  she  might  have  kissed  and  clung  to  a 
better  man,  had  she  been  taught  something  good 
when  she  was  younger." 

"My  dear,  dear  friend!"  says  Mrs.  Silver, 
taking  his  hand  in  hers. 

"I  can  not  tell  you  what  I  feared  as  I  saw  her, 
and  spoke  to  her  before  the  prison  doors  were 
opened.  Poor  Blade-o'-Grass!  poor  child! 
Nay,  let  me  have  my  way." 

And  this  good  old  man,  whose  heart  is  as 
tender  as  that  of  a  good  woman,  sheds  tears  and 
trembles ;  if  a  daughter's  happiness  had  been  at 
stake,  he  could  not  have  been  more  moved. 
Wisely,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Silver  do  not  disturb  him, 
but  talk  together  of  other  subjects  until  Mr.  Mei- 
rywhistle  exclaims,  with  something  of  his  usual 
cheerfulness, ' '  What  on  earth  are  we  sitting  in 
the  dark  for  ?"  Whereat  Mr.  Silver  smiles,  and 
lights  the  gas.  As  if  the  light  is  the  means  of 
suddenly  waking  up  the  cuckoo  from  a  nap,  it 
immediately  proclaims  seven  o'clock,  and  in  an- 
other hour  the  whole  of  Mrs.  Silver's  family  are 
assembled  in  the  parlor.  Rachel,  the  blind  givl, 
has  no  out-door  occupation,  but  all  the  others 
have.  Charley,  as  you  know,  is  a  printer,  and, 
being  out  of  his  time,  is  earning  good  wages ; 
Richard  is  a  watch-maker,  still  an  apprentice, 
and  making  famous  progress ;  and  Mary  and 
Ruth  are  both  of  them  in  the  postal  telegraph 
office.  For  it  has  been  part  of  Mrs.  Silver's  plan 
to  give  her  family  the  opportunity  of  making 
their  way  in  the  world,  and  boys  and  girls  have 
been  taught  that  to  work  is  one  of  the  chief  du- 
ties and  one  of  the  best  blessings  of  life.  Char- 
ley and  Ruth  come  in  together.  He  has  grown 
quite  a  man  since  we  last  saw  him,  and  Ruth, 
Blade-o'-Grass's  sister,  is  as  bright  and  cheerful- 
looking  a  lass  as  one  can  meet.  She  is  partic- 
ularly bright  just  now,  and  looks  particularly 
happy,  for  she  and  Charley  have  had  a  brisk 
walk;  her  cheeks  are  glowing  healthfully,  and 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


there  is  a  bright  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  Then 
questions  are  asked  and  answered.  The  events 
of  the  day  are  narrated,  and  it  is  wonderful  what 
interest  is  manifested  in  these  trifles.  Every 
few  minutes  the  comfortable  parlor  in  Butter- 
cup Square  is  filled  with  merry  laughter. 

"Come,  come,  children,"  says  Mr.  Silver, 
after  nearly  an  hour  has  been  spent  in  this  man- 
ner ;  "  are  we  to  have  any  reading  to-night  ?" 

The  books  are  instantly  brought  forward,  and 
tlie  youngstem  are  busy  turning  over  the  leaves. 
When  last  we  were  in  their  company  they  were 
deep  in  the  beautiful  story  of  "Paul  and  Virginia." 
Since  then  they  have  had  rare  nights  with  their 
favorite  authors,  and  have  laughed  and  cried,  as 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  others  have  done,  over 
the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  men  and  women 
and  children  who  play  their  parts  in  the  pages  of 
Thackeray  and  Scott  and  Dickens  and  Jerrold, 
and  authors  of  long  ago.  It  is  not  a  novel  that 
engages  their  attention  now ;  this  is  one  of  their 
"play"  nights,  when  scenes  from  Shakspeare 
are  read.  When  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  has 
ceased,  they  all  with  one  accord  turn  to  Rachel, 
the  blind  girl.  She  knows  they  are  looking  at 
her,  and  her  face  flushes  as  she  says,  "Yes, 
I  am  ready."  Then  says  Richard,  in  a  deep 
bass  voice,  laying  his  finger  on  the  first  line  of 
the  fomth  act  of  "The  Merchant  of  Venice," 
"  What,  is  Antonio  here  ?"  And  Charley  forth- 
with answers,  "Ready,  so  please  your  grace;" 
and  the  play  commences.  They  all  take  parts, 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  who  is 
the  audience,  and  who  applauds  as  if  the  house 
is  packed,  and  there  is  not  standing  room  for 
one.  Mr.  Silver  takes  Shylock  (the  villain's  part 
generally  falls  to  his  share),  and  Ruth  reads  the 
few  lines  that  Nerissa  has  to  say.  But  the  great 
wonder  of  the  reading  takes  place  when  Rich- 
ard, as  the  Duke,  says, 

"  You  hear  the  learned  Bellario,  what  he  writes : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come." 

Up  rises  Rachel,  the  blind  girl. 

"  Give  me  your  hand.    Come  you  from  old  BeUario  ?" 

And  Rachel  bows,  and  answers,  in  a  gentle 
voice,  "I  did,  my  lord."  The  scene  proceeds, 
and  Rachel  speaks  Portia's  lines  with  grace  and 
power,  and  does  not  falter  at  a  word.  How  they 
all  praise  her  and  cluster  round  her  when  the  act 
is  finished,  and  the  books  are  closed ! 

But  this  is  only  one  of  very  many  such 
nights  passed  in  that  happy  home  in  Buttercup 
Square^ 


"imE,  TtT  SO  i/nliKE. 

[TSfrfiirday  Ruth  and  Char- 
il^L/yfith  the  sanqtion  of  y 


FACE  TO  face- 
On  the  followii 
ley  had  a  holiday,^ 

their  kind  guardians7Sli^^taft4iMled  to  spend  at 
the  International  Exhibitio^^^==5fee-holiday  had 
been  planned  a  month  before  its  arrival,  and 
had,  indeed,  been  the  occasion  of  an  innocent 
conspiracy  between  Ruth  and  Rachel  and  Char- 
ley, and  of  much  mysterious  conversation.  Ra- 
chel was  to  accompany  them.  The  day,  which 
had  been  looked  forward  to  with  such  rapturous 
anticipation  as  only  the  young  can  experience 
and  enjoy,  at  length  arrived.  In  a  very  flutter 
of  delight,  the  two  girls  and  their  hero — for 
Charley  was  Rachel's  hero  as  well  as  Ruth's-— 
bade  Mrs.  Silver  good-morning,  and  went  out 
into  the  streets  with  joy  in  their  hearts.  Very 
tender  were  they  to  each  other,  and  very  tender 
were  Ruth  and  Charley  to  their  blind  compan- 
ion. No  words  of  love  had  passed  between 
Ruth  and  Rachel,  although  their  attachment  was 
known  to  their  kind  guardians,  as  you  have  read. 
But,  indeed,  no  words  were  required ;  their  al- 
most unconsciously  exercised  tenderness  toward 
one  another  were  sufficient  confirmation  of  mu- 
tual affection.  These  two  young  persons  were 
enjoying  the  purest,  happiest  dream  that  life 
contains.  May  all  the  grown-up  people  who 
read  these  pages  have  enjoyed  such  a  pure  and 
happy  dream !  May  all  others  live  to  enjoy  it ! 
Ruth  and  Charley,  of  course,  with  the  usual 
blindness  of  lovers,  believed  that  no  one  noticed 
any  thing  particular  in  their  behavior;  but  in 
this  respect  they  were  as  blind  as  Rachel — more 
so,  indeed,  if  there  be  degrees  in  blindness,  for 
even  she  guessed  their  secret.  In  the  course  of 
their  rambles  through  the  Exhibition,  she  sat 
down  and  asked  to  be  left  alone  for  a  while,  and 
when  Ruth  and  Charley  demurred,  insisted,  with 
a  pretty  and  affectionate  willfulness,  on  having 
her  own  way. 

"And  don't  hurry,"  she  said,  turning  her  face 
to  them  and  smiling  sweetly.  "You  will  find 
me  here  when  you  come  back.  I  am  tired,  and 
want  a  long,  long  rest." 

And  there  the  blind  girl  sat,  seeing  nothing,  en- 
joying every  thing,  while  unsuspecting  Ruth  and 
Charley  wandered  away  into  fairy-land,  arm  in 
arm.  Soft  strains  of  music  came  to  Rachel's  ears, 
and  she  listened  and  drank  them  in,  with  clasped 
hands  and  head  inclined.  She  was  as  one  in- 
spired ;  visions  of  beauty  passed  before  her,  and 
the  melodious  notes  were  imbued  with  palpable 
loveliness  for  her.  Many  a  passer-by  paused  to 
look  at  her  beautiful  face,  and  felt  the  better  for 
it,  and  a  great  lady  came  and  sat  down  beside 


54 


BLADE-O'- GRASS. 


her.  When  the  music  ceased,  the  lady  said,  "  My 
dear,  are  you  here  alone  ?" 

"Oh  no,*'  replied  Rachel,  "I  have  friends;  I 
asked  them  to  let  me  sit  by  myself.  I  wanted  to 
listen  to  the  music.  They  will  come  for  me  pres- 
ently." 

"  You  love  music  ?" 

*' Who  can  help  loving  it.     I  can  see  it." 

The  lady's  voice  was  soft  and  sweet,  and  Ua- 
c\ie\  felt  goodness  in  her  manner.  "Tell  me," 
she  said,  "what  is  before  me." 

They  were  sitting  opposite  a  piece  of  sculpture 
— a  perfect  work — and  the  lady  described  it,  and 
described  it  well,  and  told  the  story  that  it  illus- 
trated. 

"Ah,"  sighed  the  blind  girl,  "  it  is  beautiful!" 

The  lady  was  accompanied  by  her  husband  and 
child. 

"Is  this  your  little  daughter?"  asked  Rachel. 

"My  dear,"  exclaimed  the  lady,  "I  thought — 
thought—" 

"That  I  was  quite  blind,"  said  Rachel,  smil- 
ing. "  So  I  am.  But  see — your  little  girl's  hand 
is  in  mine." 

And  indeed  the  child,  who  was  standing  by  her 
mother's  side,  had  placed  her  hand  in  Rachel's, 
beneath  the  folds  of  the  blind  girl's  shawl. 

"And  without  that  I  think  I  could  tell,"  add- 
ed Rachel. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  my  little  girl,"  said  the 
lady. 

Rachel  stooped  and  kissed  the  child,  whose 
hand  stole  round  Rachel's  neck,  and  caressed  it. 
Lips  purer  and  more  innocent  had  never  met. 
So  they  sat,  talking  for  a  little  while  longer,  until 
Rachel  raised  her  face,  and  smiled  a  happy  greet- 
ing to  Ruth  and  Charley,  who  were  standing  be- 
fore her.  The  lady  and  the  child  bade  good-bye 
to  Rachel,  and  kissed  her ;  and  when  they  met 
again,  an  hour  afterward,  the  child  gave  Rachel 
a  flower. 

Like  the  incense  of  a  breeze  tliat  has  been  wan- 
dering among  sweet-smelling  plants  ;  like  the  soft 
plash  of  water  on  a  drowsy  day  ;  like  the  singing 
of  birds,  are  such  small  circumstances  as  these. 
Thank  God  for  them! 

And  what  had  Ruth  and  Charley  been  doing? 
Dreaming  —  nothing  more — walking  almost  in 
silence  among  the  busy,  eager,  bustling  crowd, 
standing  before  works  of  beauty,  and  enjoying. 
Every  thing  was  beautiful  in  their  eyes.  Per- 
fect harmony  encompassed  them  ;  the  commonest 
tilings  were  idealized ;  their  souls  were  filled  with 
a  sense  of  worship. 

How  quickly  the  hours  passed !  It  seemed  to 
them  that  they  had  been  in  the  place  but  a  few 
ipinutes,  and  it  was  already  time  for  them  to  go. 


They  left  with  many  a  sigh,  and  many  a  parting 
glance  at  the  wonders  which  lined  the  spaces 
through  which  they  walked.  Ruth's  hand  was 
clasped  in  Charley's  beneath  her  mantle,  and  a 
tender  light  was  in  her  eyes  as  they  made  their 
way  through  the  restless  throng.  It  was  still  light 
when  the  omnibus  put  them  down  within  a  mile 
of  Buttercup  Square,  The  tram-way  carriage 
would  have  carried  them  to  the  avenue  that  led 
to  Buttercup  Square;  but  both  Ruth  and  Rachel 
expressed  a  desire  to  walk,  wishful  perhaps  to 
prolong  the  happy  time.  Charley,  nothing  loath, 
gave  an  arm  to  each  of  the  girls,  and  they  walk- 
ed slowly  onward,  Rachel  being  nearest  to  the 
wall.  They  were  passing  a  man  and  a  girl,  who 
were  talking  together.  The  girl  had  just  utter- 
ed some  words  to  the  man,  who  was  leaving 
her,  when  Rachel  cried  suddenly,  in  a  voice  of 
alarm, 

"  Ruth,  was  it  you  who  spoke  ?" 

Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  her  limbs  were 
trembling. 

"No,  Rachel,"  answered  Ruth,  surprised  at 
the  blind  girl's  agitation. 

As  she  replied,  both  she  and  Charley  turned, 
and  saw  Blade-o'-Grass.  Thus,  for  the  first 
time  since  their  infancy,  the  sisters  looked  each 
other  in  the  fixce.'  Each  saw,  instantaneously, 
such  a  resemblance  to.herself,  that  they  leaned  to- 
ward each  other  in  sudden  bewilderment.  Their 
gaze  lasted  scarcely  as  long  as  one  might  count 
three,  for  Cliarley  hurried  Ruth  and  Rachel  on; 
he  also  had  seen  with  amazement  the  likenciis 
that  Blade-o'-Grass  bore  to  Ruth,  and  that  there 
should  be  any  resemblance  to  his  treasure  in  such 
a  forlorn,  disreputable-looking  creature  as  Blade- 
o'-Grass,  smote  him  with  a  sense  of  pain.  Ruth 
walked  along,  dazed ;  but  befoi*e  they  had  gone 
a  dozen  yards  she  stopped,  and  pressed  her  hand 
to  her  heart. 

"  Ruth!  dear  Ruth !"  exclaimed  Charley,  plac- 
ing his  arm  round  her,  for  indeed  she  was  almost 
falling.  She  released  herself,  and  said,  in  a  faint 
voice, 

"  Rachel,  why  did  you  ask  if  it  was  I  who 
spoke  ?" 

"The  tone  was  so  exactly  like  yours,  Ruth," 
answered  Rachel,  * '  that  the  words  slipped  out 
from  me  unaware.     Who  was  it  that  spoke  ?" 

"It  must  have  been  a  poor  girl  whom  we 
have  just  passed." 

"What  is  she  like?" 

Ruth's  lips  trembled,  but  she  did  not  answer 
the  question. 

"Why  must  the  words  have  slipped  from  you 
unaware,  Rachel  ?" 

' '  Because,  if  I  had  considered  an  instant,  I 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


55 


should  not  ha^e  asked.  You  could  not  have  said 
such  a  thing." 

"What  thing? — Nay,  Charley,  don't  interrupt 
me,"  said  Ruth,  in  such  an  imploring  tone,  that 
he  was  mute  from  fear,  for  Ruth's  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears,  and  her  face  was  very  pale.  "  What 
thing,  Rachel?" 

*' Just  then,"  answered  Rachel,  slowly  and  sol- 
emnly, *'a  voice  said.  Tor  God's  sake,  Tom, 
bring  home  some  money,  for  there's  not  a  bit  of 
bread  in  the  cupboard !' " 

*'  Charley !"  cried  Ruth,  hurriedly,  "  stand  here 
with  Rachel  for  a  few  moments.  Don't  follow 
me ;  let  me  go  alone." 

She  was  his  queen,  and  he  obeyed  her ;  but  his 
apprehensive  looks  followed  her,  although  he  did 
not  stir  from  the  spot.  Ruth  hastened  to  where 
Blade-o'-Grass  was  standing.  The  poor  outcast 
was  very  wan  and  wretched.  Ruth  knew  part 
of  her  own  history ;  for  Mrs.  Silver,  when  her 
adopted  children  arrived  at  a  proper  age,  had 
told  them,  gently,  as  much  of  the  story  of  their 
lives  as  slie  deemed  it  right  and  necessary  for 
them  to  know.  The  hours  in  which  she  unfold- 
ed their  stories  to  her  children  were  quiet  and 
solemn ;  there  was  no  one  present  but  she  and 
her  adopted  one ;  and  she  told  them  their  his- 
tory so  gently,  and  with  such  sweet  words  of  love, 
that  they  were  never  unhappy  when  they  learned 
the  truth.  Ruth,  therefore,  knew  that  she  was 
an  oi-phan ;  and  she,  in  common  with  the  others, 
had  shed  many  grateful  tears,  and  had  oifered 
up  many  grateful  prayers,  for  the  merciful  heart 
that  had  made  life  a  blessing  to  her.  As  she 
stood  before  her  sister,  so  like,  yet  so  unlike — her 
sister  never  to  be  recognized,  or  acknowledged  as 
of  her  blood  —  the  thought  came  to  her,  "But 
for  my  dear  good  mother  I  miglit  have  been  like 
this — ragged,  forlorn,  hungiy,  with  not  a  bit  of 
bread  in  the  cupboard!" 

Blade-o'-Grass,  whose  wistful  eyes  had  follow- 
ed the  strange  likeness  to  herself,  saw  Ruth  turn 
back,  and  dropped  a  courtesy  as  her  sister,  in  her 
warm,  soft  dress,  stood  before  her. 

Then  said  Ruth,  timidly,  "It  was  you  who 
said  that?"  She  herself  might  have  been  the 
suppliant,  her  voice  and  manner  were  so  quiet 
and  humble. 

"Said  what,  miss?" 

"  That  you  hadn't  a  bit  of  bread  in  the  cup- 
board. " 

"It's  true,  miss,  and  to-morrow's  Sunday." 

Ruth  thought  of  what  a  happy  day  the  Sabbath 
was  to  her  and  hers  in  Buttercup  Square,  the 
goodness  of  it,  the  peacefulness  of  it !  And  this 
forlorn  girl  before  her,  the  sight  of  whom  had  so 
strangely  unnerved  her,  had  only  one  thought  of 


that  happy  Sabbath  to-morrow  —  whether  she 
would  be  able  to  get  bread  to  eat.  Tears  choked 
her  voice  as  she  asked,  "Will  you  tell  me  your 
name?" 

"Blade-o'-Grass,  miss." 

Ruth  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Is  that  your 
real  name?" 

"Yes,  miss,  I  ain't  got  no  other." 

Ruth's  hand  had  been  in  her  pocket  from  the 
first,  with  her  purse  in  it ;  but  she  could  scarcely 
muster  sufficient  courage  to  give.  She  judged 
poor  Blade-o'-Grass  with  the  eyes  of  her  own 
sensitive  soul,  and  felt  that  if  money  were  ofi*er- 
ed  to  her  she  would  sink  to  the  earth  in  shame. 

"Will  you  pardon  me,"  she  said,  hesitatingly, 
the  hot  blood  flushing  her  neck  and  face ;  "  will 
you  pardon  me  if  I  offer  you — if  I  beg  of  you  to — 
to—" 

The  hand  of  Blade-o'-Grass  was  held  out  ea- 
gerly, imploringly,  and  Ruth  emptied  her  purse 
into  it.  Blade-o'-Grass  wondered  at  the  munifi- 
cence of  the  gift,  and  the  modesty  with  which  it 
was  given,  and  her  fingers  closed  greedily  on  the 
silver  coins. 

"  God  Almighty  bless  you,  miss !"  she  exclaim- 
ed, taking  Ruth's  hand  and  kissing  it.  "God 
Almighty  bless  you !"  The  tears  were  streaming 
down  both  their  faces.  A  warm  hand  pressure, 
a  last  grateful  look  from  Blade-o'Grass,  and  the 
sisters  parted. 

"  Oh,  Charley  !  Charley !"  sobbed  Ruth,  as  she 
clasped  his  arm,  "I  might  have  been  like  that!' 
They  walked  in  silence  to  their  home,  and  Ruth 
whispered  to  her  companions  not  to  say  any 
thing  to  their  kind  guardians  of  what  had  taken 
place.     "  It  might  make  them  sad,"  she  said. 

It  was  dusk  when  they  went  in-doors.  Rachel 
went  to  her  room  first,  and  Ruth  and  Charley 
lingered  in  the  passage. 

"  Ruth !"  he  whispered. 

She  laid  her  head  upon  his  breast  with  the  con- 
fidence and  innocence  of  a  child.  He  stooped 
and  kissed  her  cheek,  still  wet  with  her  tears. 
She  clung  to  him  more  closely — hid  her  face  in 
his  neck.  A  wondering  hai)piness  took  posses- 
sion of  them. 


KOBERT  TRUEFIT  ALLOWS   HIS    FEELINGS  TO 
MASTER  HIM. 

The  chance  acquaintanceship  which  had  so 
strangely  syrung  up  seven  years  ago  between  Mr. 
Merrj'whistle,  Robert  Truefit,  and  Jimmy  Virtue 
had  ripened  into  intimacy,  and  it  was  not  un- 
usual for  the  three  to  meet  in  the  old  man's  leav- 
ing-shop  in  Stoney  Alley.  The  shop  and  the 
stock  were,  on  the  whole,  less  fragrant  than  ou 


56 


BLADE -O'-GEASS. 


the  occasion  of  Mr.  Merry  whistle's  first  introduc- 
tion to  them.  An  additional  seven  years'  mouldi- 
ness  lay  heavy  on  the  shelves  ;  but  fomiliarity  had 
rendered  the  musty  vapor  less  objectionable  to 
the  benevolent  gentleman.  There  was  no  per- 
ceptible change  of  importance  in  Jimmy  Virtue ; 
his  skin  certainly  had  got  tougher  and  dryer  and 


ners ;  the  same  crinolines  loomed  from  unlikely 
places;  the  same  old  boots  hung  from  the  ceil- 
ing ;  and  doubtless  the  same  vanities  of  vanities 
were  inclosed  in  the  box  which  served  as  a  rest- 
ing-place in  Jimmy  Virtue's  parlor. 

It  was  a  dull,  miserable  November  night.     A 
thick  fog  had  lain  upon  Stoney  Alley  during  the 


"euth  emitied  hee  pdkse  into  bladb-o'-6ba.bs's  hands." 


yellower,  but  otherwise  he  did  not  seem  to  be  a 
day  older.  His  eyebrows  were  as  precipitous, 
and  his  glass  eye  as  mild,  and  his  fierce  eye  as 
fierce,  as  ever  they  were.  No  perceptible  change, 
either,  was  to  be  observed  in  the  articles  which 
filled  his  shop  :  the  same  faded  dresses  and  dirty 
petticoats  were  crammed  into  inconvenient  cor- 


day,  necessitating  the  use  of  candles  and  gas ; 
toward  the  evening  the  fog  had  cleared  away, 
and  a  dismal  rain  had  set  in  ;  Stoney  Alley  and 
its  neighboring  courts  and  lanes  were  overlaid 
with  dirty  puddles.  It  was  by  a  strange  chance, 
therefore,  that  Mr.  Merrywhistle  and  Kobert 
Truefit  found  themselves  in  Jimmy  Virtue's  par- 


BLADE- O'- GRASS. 


57 


lor  on  this  evening ;  they  said  as  much  to  each 
other.  Each  of  them  had  some  special  business 
which  brought  them  in  Jimmy's  neighborhood, 
and  he  expressed  his  pleasure  when  he  saw  them. 
They  were  the  only  living  friends  he  had ;  other 
friends  he  had,  but  they  were  not  human ;  not- 
withstanding which,  some  hours  would  have  hung 
dreadfully  upon  Jimmy's  hands  if  he  had  been 
deprived  of  them.  These  friends  were  aces, 
deuces,  knaves,  and  the  like ;  in  other  words,  a 
pack  of  cards.  Very  dirty,  ver}--  greasy,  very 
much  thumbed  and  dog's-eared,  but  very  useful. 
Jimmy  spent  comfortable  hours  with  these  friends. 
Sitting  in  his  chair,  he  would  place  an  imaginary 
opponent  on  the  seat  opposite  to  him,  and  would 
play  blind  All-Fours  with  his  unreal  foe  for  large 
sums  of  money.  "Jack"  was  the  name  of  his 
opponent ;  and  Jimmy  often  talked  to  him,  and 
called  him  a  fool  for  playing,  and  abused  him 
generally  for  incapacity.  For  Jimmy  nearly  al- 
ways won ;  and  many  and  many  a  night  Jack 
was  dismissed  a  ruined  and  broken-hearted  shad- 
ow, while  Jimmy,  after  putting  up  his  shutters, 
let  down  his  turn-up  bedstead,  and  went  to  bed  a 
winner  of  hundreds,  sometimes  of  thousands  of 
pounds.  For  Jack's  wealth  was  enormous ;  he 
never  refused  a  bet,  never  declined  "double  or 
quits. "  So  reckless  a  player  was  he — ^being  egged 
on  by  Jimmy — that  it  was  impossible  he  could 
have  come  by  his  money  honestly.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  his  ill-gotten  gains  were  swept  into  Jimmy's 
imaginaiy  coffers,  to  the  old  man's  delight  and 
satisfaction.  It  is  a  positive  fact,  that  Jimmy 
had  grown  into  a  sort  of  belief  in  Jack's  exist- 
ence, and  often  imagined  that  he  saw  a  shadowy 
opponent  sitting  opposite  him.  There  was  a 
very  good  reason  why  Jimmy  so  invariably  won 
and  Jack  so  invariably  lost.  Jimmy  cheated. 
He  often  slipped  into  his  own  cards  an  ace  or  a 
knave  that  properly  belonged  to  Jack.  When 
Jimmy  did  this,  his  manner  was  as  wary  and 
cautious  as  though  flesh  and  blood  opposed  him. 
It  was  a  picture  to  see  this  old  man  playing  All- 
Fours  with  Jack  for  ten  pounds  a  game,  or  for 
"double  or  quits,"  and  cheating  his  helpless  ad- 
versary. 

When  Mr.  Merrywhistle  and  Robert  Truefit 
entered  Jimmy's  parlor  —  they  had  met  at  the 
door  of  tiie  leaving-shop — he  was  playing  greasy 
All-Fours  with  Jack,  and  had  just  scored  a  win- 
ning game.  Robert  Truefit  always  had  some- 
thing new  to  speak  of:  a  trade-union  outrage,  a 
strike,  a  flagrant  instance  of  justices'  justice,  a 
mass  meeting  and  what  was  said  thereat,  and 
other  subjects,  of  which  a  new  crop  springs  np  ev- 
ery day  in  a  great  country  where  tens  of  millions 
of  people  live  and  have  to  be  legislated  for.     The 


late  war,  of  course,  was  a  fruitful  theme  with 
Robert  Truefit,  who  spoke  of  it  as  an  infamous 
outrage  upon  civilization.  Especially  indignant 
was  he  at  the  sacrilege  which  lay  in  one  king  in- 
voking "the  God  of  Battles,"  and  in  the  other 
praying  to  the  Supreme  to  assist  him  in  bringing 
desolation  and  misery  to  thousands  of  homes. 
But  this  is  no  place  for  the  outpourings  of  Rob- 
ert's indignation  on  those  themes.  From  those 
lofty  heights  they  came  down,  after  a  time,  to 
Blade-o'-Grass.  It  was  Mr.  Merrywhistle  who 
introduced  her  name.  He  asked  Jimmy  if  he 
had  seen  her  lately.  No ;  Jimmy  hadn't  seen 
her  for  a  month. 

"You  see,"  said  Jimmy,  "she's  a  woman 
now,  and  'as  been  on  'er  own  'ook  this  many  a 
year.  Besides  which,  once  when  I  spoke  to  her 
she  was  sarcy,  and  cheeked  me  because  I  wanted 
to  give  'er  a  bit  of  advice  —  good  advice,  too. 
But  she  was  up  in  the  stirrups  then." 

"Has  she  ever  been  prosperous?"  inquired 
Mr.  Merrywhistle. 

"Well,  not  what  you  would  call  prosperous,  I 
dare  say;  but  she's  'ad  a  shillin'  to  spare  now 
and  agin.  And  then,  agin,  she  'asn't,  now  and 
agin.  She's  'ad  her  ups  and  downs  like  all  the 
other  gals  about  'ere ;  you  couldn't  expect  any 
thin'  else,  you  know.  And  of  course  you've 
'eerd  that  Tom  Beadle  and  'er — " 

"Tom  Beadle  and  her — what?"  asked  Mr. 
Merrywhistle,  as  Jimmy  paused. 

' '  Oh,  nothin ', "  replied  Jimmy,  evasively ;  "  it's 
sich  a  common  thing  that  it  ain't  worth  mention- 
in'." 

"  I  saw  her  myself  about  six  weeks  ago,"  said 
Mr.  Merrywhistle ;  and  he  narrated  how  he  had 
met  Blade-o'-Grass  outside  the  prison,  and  what 
had  passed  between  them,  and  what  he  had  seen. 
"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "is  she  married  to  Tom 
Beadle?" 

Jimmy  Virtue's  eye  of  flesh  expressed  that  Mr. 
Menywhistle  outrivaled  Simple  Simon  in  sim- 
plicity. "  I  do  believe,"  thought  Jimmy,  "  that 
he  gits  greener  and  greener  every  time  I  see  him." 
Then  he  said  aloud,  contemptuously,  "  Married  to 
Tom  !     As  much  as  I  am  I " 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  twisted  his  fingers  nervous- 
Iv,  and  otherwise  so  comported  himself  as  to 
show  that  he  was  grieved  and  pained. 

"I  wouldn't  'ave  a  'ait  as  soft  as  yours," 
thought  Jimmy,  as  Mr.  Merrywhistle  rested  his 
head  upon  his  hand  sadly,  "and  as  green  as 
yours — no,  not  for  a  'atful  of  money." 

"Poor  child!  poor  child  I"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Merrywhistle.  "I  wish  I  could  do  something 
for  her." 

"Too  late,"  said  Jimmy,  shortly. 


58 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


*' Yes,  too  late,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Robert  True- 
fit.  *'Blade-o'- Grass  is  a  woman  now.  Her 
ideas,  her  principles,  her  associations  are  rooted. 
When  she  was  a  sapling,  good  might  have  been 
done  for  her,  and  she  might  have  grown  up 
straight.  But  she  had  no  chance,  poor  tiling ! 
And  Jimmy's  tone  and  your  fears  point  to  some- 
thing worse  than  hunger.  You  fear  she  is  lead- 
ing a  bad  life. " 

"No,  no!"  interposed  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  ear- 
nestly ;  ' '  not  that — indeed,  not  that.  But  I  would 
give  more  than  I  could  afford  if  I  knew  that  she 
■was  married  to  Tom  Beadle." 

"Thief  as  he  is  ?"  questioned  Robert  Truefit. 

"Thief  as  he  is,"  replied  Mr.  Merrywhistle. 

His  grief  was  contagious :  Robert  Truefit  turn- 
ed away,  with  a  troubled  look  on  his  face ;  Jim- 
my Virtue  preserved  a  stohd  silence,  as  was  his 
general  habit  on  such  occasions.  "What  can 
one  good  man  do  ?"  presently  said  Robert  True- 
fit,  in  a  low  tone ;  but  his  voice  was  singularly 
clear.  "What  can  a  hundred  good  men  do, 
each  working  singly,  according  to  the  impulse 
of  his  benevolent  heart  ?  I  honor  them  for  their 
deeds,  and  God  forbid  that  I  should  harbor  a 
wish  to  check  them!  Would  that  more  money 
were  as  well  spent,  and  that  their  numbers  were 
increased  a  hundred-fold!  They  do  some  good. 
But  is  it  not  cruel  to  know  that  Blade-o'-Grass 
is  but  one  of  thousands  of  human  blades  who 
are  cursed,  shunned,  ignored,  through  no  fault  of 
theirs,  and  who,  when  circumstances  push  them 
into  the  light,  are  crushed  by  System  ?  If  they 
were  lepers,  their  condition  would  be  better. 
And  they  might  be  so  different !  To  themselves, 
and  all  around  them.  To  the  State  ;  to  society. 
Is  it  not  enough  almost  to  make  one  believe  that 
our  statesmen  are  blind  or  grievously  misled,  or 
that  they  are  playing  at  politics,  or  that  they  have 
set  themselves  in  such  high  places  that  they  can't 
stoop  to  give  a  hand  where  help  is  most  needed, 
where  good  advice  and  good  example  are  most 
needed  ?  What  do  they  do  for  such  poor  places 
as  these?  Give  them  gin-shops  and  an  extra 
number  of  pohce.  No  effort  made  for  improve- 
ment; no  clearing  away  of  nest-holes  where 
moral  corruption  and  physical  misery  fester  and 
ripen.  And  while  they  legislate,  Blades-o'-Grass 
are  springing  up  all  around  them,  and  living  poi- 
soned lives.  And  while  they  legislate,  if  there 
be  truth  in  what  preachers  preach,  souls  are  be- 
ing damned  by  force  of  circumstance.  What 
should  be  the  aim  of  those  who  govern  ?  So  to 
govern  as  to  produce  the  maximum  of  human  hap- 
piness and,  comfort,  and  the  minimum  of  human 
misery  and  vice.  Not  to  the  few — to  the  many, 
to  all."     He  paused,  and  turned  to  Mr.  Merry- 


whistle. ' '  Seven  years  ago, "  he  continued,  ' '  we 
talked  of  poor  Blade-o'-Grass.  I  told  you  then 
— I  remember  it  well — that  England  was  full  of 
such  pictures  as  that  hungry,  ignorant  child,  with 
the  tiger  in  her  stomach,  presented.  Seven  yeare 
before  that  it  was  the  same.  During  that  time 
Blade-o'-Grass  has  grown  up  from  a  baby  to  a 
woman.  What  a  childhood  must  hers  have  been ! 
I  wonder  if  she  ever  had  a  toy !  And  see  what 
she  is  now :  a  woman  for  whom  you  fear — what 
I  guess,  but  will  not  say.  What  will  she  be —  " 
where  will  she  be — in  seven  years  from  now? 
Seventy  years  is  the  fullness  of  our  age.  Carry 
Blade-o'-Grass  onward  for  seven  years  more,  and 
find  her  an  old  woman  long  before  she  should 
have  reached  her  prime.  What  has  been  done 
in  the  last  seven  years  for  such  as  she?  What 
will  be  done  in  the  next — and  the  next  ?  There 
are  thousands  upon  thousands  of  such  babes  and 
girls  as  she  was  seven  years  and  twice  seven  years 
ago  growing  up  as  I  speak ;  contamination  is  eat- 
ing into  their  bones,  corrupting  their  blood,  poi- 
soning their  instincts  for  good.  What  shall  be 
done  for  them  in  the  next  seven  years  ?  Pardon 
me,"  he  said,  breaking  off  suddenly ;  "  I  have  let 
my  feelings  run  ahead  of  me,  perhaps;  but  I'll 
stick  to  what  I've  said,  nevertheless." 

With  that  he  wished  them  good-night,  and 
took  his  leave.  Mr.  Merrywhistle  soon  followed 
him,  first  ascertaining  from  Jimmy  Virtue  the 
address  of  Blade-o'-Grass. 

Jimmy,  being  left  to  his  own  resources,  went 
to  the  door  to  see  what  sort  of  a  night  it  was. 
The  rain  was  still  falling  drearily.  It  was  too 
miserable  a  night  for  him  to  take  his  usual  pipe 
in  the  open  air,  and  too  miserable  a  night  for  hira 
to  expect  to  do  any  business  in.  So  he  put  up 
his  shutters,  and  retired  to  his  parlor.  Then  he 
took  out  his  greasy  pack  of  cards,  and  conjured 
up  Jack  for  a  game  of  All-Fours.  With  his  eye 
on  his  opponent,  he  filled  his  pipe  carefully,  liglit- 
ed  it,  puffed  at  it,  and  cut  for  deal.  He  won  it, 
and  the  first  thing  he  did  after  that  was  to  turn 
up  a  knave  (slipping  it  from  the  bottom  of  the 
pack)  and  score  one.  He  was  in  a  more  than 
usually  reckless  and  cheating  mood.  He  staked 
large  sums,  went  double  or  quits,  and  double  or 
quits  again,  and  cheated  unblushingly.  He  won 
a  fortune  off  Jack  in  an  hour ;  and  then  con- 
temptuously growled,  "I'll  try  you  at  cribbage, 
old  fellow."  The  cribbage-board  was  his  table, 
and  he  scored  the  game  with  a  bit  of  chalk. 
Jack  fared  no  better  at  cribbage  than  he  had 
done  at  All-Fours.  Jimmy  had  all  the  good 
cribs,  Jack  all  the  bad  ones.  By  the  time  that 
the  table  was  smeared  all  over  with  chalk  figures, 
Jimmy  was  sleepy.     He  played  one  last  game  for 


BLADE -O'.  GRASS. 


69 


an  enormous  stake,  and  liaving  won  it  and  ruined 
Jack,  he  went  to  bed  contentedly,  and  slept  the 
sleep  of  the  just. 


TOO   LATE. 


Me.  Mebrtwhistlb  had  no  very  distinct  plan 
in  his  mind  when  he  left  Jimmy  Virtue's  shop  to 
visit  Blade-o'-Grass.     Sincerely  commiserating 


plied  ?  By  what  means  was  she  to  be  lifted  out 
of  that  slough  into  which  she  had  been  allowed 
to  sink  ?  And  then  he  feared  that  she  was  past 
training.  As  Robert  Truefit  had  said,  Blade-o'- 
Grass  was  a  woman  now,  with  a  grown-up  per- 
son's passions  and  desires  firmly  rooted  in  her 
nature.  And  he  feared  something  else,  also. 
But  he  would  see  her  and  speak  to  her  freely ; 
good  might  come  of  it. 
The  room  she  occupied  was  at  the  extreme 


TOOK  OUT  mS  QBEABY  PACK  OF  CARDS. 


her  condition,  he  wished  to  put  her  in  the  way 

to  get  an  honest  and  respectable  living,  but  was 
deeply  perplexed  as  to  the  method  by  which  she 
was  to  arrive  at  this  desirable  consummation. 
Some  small  assistance  in  money  he  might  man- 
age to  give  her ;  but  in  what  way  could  it  be  ap- 


end  of  Stoney  Alley,  and  Mr.  ]Merr}'whistle  was 
soon  stumbling  along  dark  passages  and  up  flights 
of  crippled  stairs.  When  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  house,  as  he  thought,  he  tapped  at  a  door, 
and,  receiving  no  answer,  turned  the  handle  and 
entered.     A  very  old  woman,  sitting  before  a 


60 


BLADE- O'- GRASS. 


Tery  small  fire,  smiled  and  mumbled  in  reply  to 
his  questions ;  and  he  soon  discovered  that  she 
was  deaf  and  childish,  and  that  he  was  in  the 
wrong  apartment.  As  he  stumbled  into  the 
dark  again,  a  woman,  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
came  on  to  the  landing  with  a  candle  in  her 
hand,  and  showed  Mr.  Merrywhistle  that  there 
was  still  another  flight  of  stairs  to  mount.  Blade- 
o'-Gi-ass  lived  up  there,  the  woman  said;  first 
door  on  the  right.  She  didn't  know  if  the  girl 
was  at  home.  And  then  she  asked  if  he  was  a 
doctor.  No,  he  answered,  sui'prised  at  the  ques- 
tion ;  he  was  not  a  doctor.  The  crazy  stairs 
complained  audibly  as  he  trod  them.  He  knock- 
ed at  the  first  door  on  the  right,  and  paused. 

*' You'd  better  go  in,  and  see,  Sir,"  called  the 
woman  from  below;  "perhaps  she's  asleep." 
Mr.  Merrywhistle  hesitated.  What  right,  he 
thought,  had  he  to  intrude  on  the  girl's  privacy, 
and  at  this  time  of  night  ?  But  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  there  for  no  bad  purpose  made  him 
bold,  and  he  opened  the  door.  A  candle  that 
was  buraing  on  the  table  threw  a  dim  light 
around,  but  the  corners  of  the  miserable  apart- 
ment were  in  shade.  The  woman  was  right  in 
her  conjecture ;  Blade-o'-Grass  was  in  the  room, 
asleep.  She  was  lying  on  the  ground,  dressed, 
before  a  mockery  of  a  fire ;  her  head  was  resting 
on  a  stool,  round  which  one  arm  was  thrown. 
The  faintly -flickering  flames  threw  occasional 
gleams  of  light  on  the  girl's  face,  over  which, 
strange  to  say,  a  smile  was  playing,  as  if  her 
dreams  were  jjleasant  ones.  The  benevolent 
old  gentleman  looked  round  upon  the  miserable 
apartment,  and  sighed.  It  was  a  shelter,  noth- 
ing more — a  shelter  for  want  and  destitution. 
Then  he  looked  down  upon  the  form  of  the  sleep- 
ing girl,  clothed  in  rags.  Child-woman,  indeed, 
she  was.  Her  pretty  face  was  thin  and  pale; 
but  there  was  a  happy  expression  upon  it,  and 
once  her  arm  clasped  the  stool  with  fond  emo- 
tion, as  if  she  were  pressing  to  her  breast  some- 
thing that  she  loved.  Yet,  doubtless,  there  are 
many  stem  moralists,  philanthropic  theorists,  and 
benevolent  word-wasters,  who  would  have  looked 
coldly  upon  this  sleeping  child,  and  who — self- 
elected  teachers  as  they  are  of  what  is  good 
and  moral — would  only  have  seen  in  her  and 
her  surroundings  a  text  for  eff*ervescent  plati- 
tudes. But  the  school  in  which  they  learn  their 
lessons  is  as  cruel  and  harsh  as  the  school  in 
which  Blade-o'-Grass  learns  hers  is  unwholesome 
and  bitter. 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  was  debating  with  himself 
whether  he  should  arouse  her,  when  a  slight  mo- 
tion on  his  part  saved  him  the  trouble  of  decid- 
ing.    "Is  that  you,  Tom?"  she  asked,  softly. 


opening  her  eyes,  and  then,  seeing  a  strange  fig- 
ure before  her,  scrambled  to  her  feet. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you,"  said  Mr.  Merry- 
whistle. 

Although  she  courtesied,  she  was  scarcely  awake 
yet.  But  presently  she  said,  "Oh  yes,  Sir;  I 
arks  yer  pardon.     It's  Mr.  Merrywhistle  ?" 

"  Yes,  child  ;  may  I  sit  down  ?" 

She  motioned  him  to  the  only  chair  the  room 
contained.  "  It's  very  late,  ain't  it?"  she  asked. 
And  then,  anxiously,  "Is  any  think  up?" 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  was  sufficiently  versed  in  vul- 
gar vernacular  to  understand  her  meaning.  No, 
he  said,  there  was  nothing  the  matter. 

She  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  said,  "I 
thought  you  might  'ave  come  to  tell  me  some- 
thin'  bad." 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  here?" 

"  Oh,  ever  so  long." 

"Alone?"  he  asked,  after  a  slight  pause. 

But  to  this  question  she  made  no  reply. 

"Times  are  hard  with  you,  are  they  not,  my 
child  ?"  he  said,  approaching  his  subject. 

"Very  'ard,"  she  answered,  with  a  weary  shalce 
of  the  head. 

"Have  you  given  up  selling  flowers?" 

"'Tain't  the  season  for  flowers,"  she  answer- 
ed ;   "  wilets  won't  be  in  for  three  months." 

He  felt  the  difficulty  of  the  task  he  had  set 
himself.  "How  do  you  live  when  there  are  no 
flowers  ?" 

"Any  'ow ;  sometimes  I  sells  matches ;  I  can't 
tell  you  'ow,  and  that's  a  fact. " 

"  But  why  don't  you  work  ?"  he  inquired,  with 
a  bold  plunge. 

' '  Work ! "  she  exclaimed.  * '  What  work  ?  I 
don't  know  nothin'.  But  I've  been  arksed  that 
lots  of  times.  A  peeler  told  me  that  once,  and 
when  I  arksed  him  to  get  me  some  work  that  I 
could  do,  he  only  larfed." 

"  Suppose  now,"  said  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  "  that 
I  were  to  take  you  away  from  this  place,  and  put 
you  somewhere  where  you  could  learn  dress- mak- 
ing or  needle- work." 

She  gave  him  a  grateful  and  surprised  look. 
"I  don't  think  it'd  answer.  Sir.  I  knoAvs  lots 
o'  gals  who  tried  to  git  a  livin'  by  needle-work, 
and  couldn't  do  it.  I  knows  some  as  set  up  till 
two  o'clock  in  the  mornin',  and  got  up  agin  at 
eight,  and  then  couldn't  earn  enough  to  git  a  shoe 
to  their  foot.  And  they  couldn't  always  git  work ; 
they'd  go  for  weeks  and  couldn't  git  a  stitch." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Merrywhis- 
tle, who  was  as  ignorant  as  a  child  in  such  mat- 
ters.    "  What  did  they  do  then  ?" 

Blade-o'-Grass  laughed  recklessly.  "Del 
what  do  you  think  ?    Beg,  or — somethin'  else." 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


61 


He  was  pained  by  her  manner,  and  said,  "  My 
poor  child,  I  have  only  come  here  out  of  kind- 
ness, and  to  try  if  I  could  do  some  good  for  you." 

"I  know.  Sir,"  she  said,  gratefully;  "you've 
always  been  kind  to  me  as  long  as  I  can  remem- 
ber; I  don't  forget.  Sir.  But  there's  some  things 
I  know  more  about  nor  you  do.  Sir.  A  gal  can't 
git  a  livin'  by  needle-work  —  leastways,  a  good 
many  of  'em  can't.  There  was  a  woman  livin' 
in  the  next  room  :  she  worked  'er  fingers  to  the 
bone,  and  couldn't  git  enough  to  eat.  Last  win- 
ter was  a  reg'lar  'ard  un ;  and  then  she  lost  her 
work,  and  couldn't  git  another  shop.  She  took 
to  beggin',  and  was  'ad  up  afore  the  beak.  She 
was  discharged  with  a  caution,  I  'eerd.  It  was 
a  caution  to  her :  she  died  o'  starvation  in  that 
there  room !" 

Grieved  and  shocked,  Mr.  Merrywhistle  was  si- 
lent for  a  little  while ;  but  he  brightened  up  pres- 
ently. He  was  sincerely  desirous  to  do  some  tan- 
gible good  for  Blade-o'-Grass.  He  thought  of  the 
situations  held  by  Ruth  and  Mary  in  the  Postal 
Telegi-aph  Oflfice.  Suppose  he  was  to  take  Blade- 
o'-Grass  away  from  the  contaminating  influences 
by  which  she  was  surrounded ;  give  her  decent 
clothes,  and  have  her  taught  the  system,  so  that 
she  might  be  an  eligible  candidate.  He  could 
set  some  influence  at  work ;  Mr.  Silver  would 
do  his  best,  and  there  were  others  also  whom  he 
could  induce  to  interest  themselves.  He  felt  quite 
hopeful  as  he  thought.  He  mooted  the  idea  to 
Blade-o'-Grass.  She  listened  in  silence,  and  when 
she  spoke,  it  was  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  her 
face  turned  from  him. 

"I've  see'd  them  gals,  and  I'd  like  to  be  one 
of  'em ;  but — " 

"  But  what,  Blade-o'-Grass?"  he  asked,  kindly, 
almost  tenderly ;  for  there  was  a  plaintiveness  in 
her  voice  that  deeply  affected  him. 

"  They  must  be  able  to  read,  mustn't  they  ?" 

"Oh,  yes ;  they  would  be  useless  without  that." 

"And  they  must  be  able  to  write,  too.  Where 
do  you  think  /  learned  to  read  and  write?  I 
don't  know  one  letter  from  another." 

Here  was  another  difficulty,  and  a  gigantic 
one  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  each  fresh  obstacle  only 
served  to  expand  Mr.  Meny whistle's  benevolent 
heart. 

"  Why  then, "he  said,  cheerfully,  "  suppose  we 
teach  you  to  read  and  write.  You'd  learn  quick- 
ly, I'll  be  bound." 

A  sudden  rush  of  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and 
she  sat  down  on  the  floor,  and  sobbed,  and  rock- 
ed  herself  to  and  fro. 

' '  It's  too  late ! "  she  cried.     "  Too  late ! " 

Too  late!  The  very  words  used  by  Robert 
Truefit.    They  fell  ominously  on  Mr.  MeiTy  whis- 


tle's ears.  He  asked  for  an  explanation  ;  but  he 
had  to  wait  until  the  girl's  giief  was  spent,  before 
he  received  an  answer.  She  wiped  her  eyes  in 
a  manner  that  showed  she  was  mad  with  herself 
for  giving  way  to  such  emotion,  and  turned  on 
her  would-be  benefactor  almost  defiantly. 

"Look  'ere,"  she  said,  in  a  hard,  cold  voice, 
"all  them  gals  are  what  you  call  respectable, 
ain't  they  ?" 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"  Don't  call  me  your  child ;  it  'urts  me — oh,  it 
'urts  me."  She  was  almost  on  the  point  of  giv- 
ing way  again  ;  but  she  set  her  teeth  close,  and 
shook  herself  like  an  angry  dog,  and  so  checked 
the  spasms  that  rose  to  her  throat.  ' '  They  must 
show  that  they're  respectable,  mustn't  they,  or 
they  couldn't  git  the  billet  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  I  ain't  respectable,  as  you  call 
it;  'ow  can  I  be?  A  nice  respectable  gal  I'd 
look,  comin'  out  of  a  orfice!  Why,  they've  got 
nice  warm  clothes,  every  one  of  'em,  and  muffs 
and  tippets,  and  all  that.  I've  see'd  'em,  lots  of 
times." 

"But  you  can  leave  your  past  life  behind 
you,"  urged  Mr.  Merrywhistle,  overleaping  all 
obstacles;  "you  can  commence  another  life, 
and  be  like  them. " 

"Be  like  them!  I  can't  be.  It's  too  late,  I 
tell  you.  And  I'll  tell  you  somcthin'  more,"  she 
added,  slowly  and  very  distinctly:  "I  wouldn't 
leave  Tom  Beadle  to  be  the  best-dressed  gal 
among  'em." 

"Why?" 

"Why!"  she  echoed,  looking  into  his  face 
with  wonder.  "Why!  Tom  Beadle's  been  the 
best  friend  I  ever  'ad.  He's  give  me  gnib  lots 
and  lots  o'  times.  When  I  was  a  little  kid,  and 
didn't  know  what  was  what ;  when  the  tiger  was 
a-tearin'  my  veiy  inside  out ;  Tom  Beadle's  come 
and  took  pity  on  me.  No  one  else  but  'im  did 
take  it.  I  should  'ave  starved  a  'undred  times, 
if  it  'adn't  been  for  Tom.  Why,  it  was  'ira  na 
set  me  up  for  a  flower-gal,  and  'im  as  took  me  to 
the  theaytre,  and  'im  as  told  me  I  should  lick 
Poll  Buttons  into  fits.  And  so  I  did,  when  I 
'ad  a  nice  dress  on  ;  they  all  said  so.  And  there's 
another  i*eason,  if  you'd  care  to  know.  No,  I 
won't  tell  yon.  If  you  arks  about  'ere,  I  dare 
say  you  can  find  out,  and  if  you  wait  a  little  while, 
you'll  find  out  for  yourself."  She  stood  up  bold- 
ly before  him,  and  said,  in  a  low,  passionate 
voice,  "I  love  Tom,  and  Tom  loves  me!  I 
wouldn't  leave  *im  for  all  the  world.  I'll  stick 
to  'im  and  be  true  to  'im  till  I  die." 

Here  was  an  end  to  Mr.  Merrj-^vhistle's  benev< 
olent  intentions ;  he  had  nothing  more  to  urge. 


62 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


The  difficulties  31ade-o'-Grass  herself  had  put  in 
the  way  seemed  to  him  to  render  her  social  re- 
demption almost  impossible.  Blade-o'-Grass  saw 
trouble  in  his  face,  and  said,  as  if  he  were  the  one 
who  required  pity : 

"  Don't  take  on,  Sir ;  it  can't  be  'elped.  Next 
to  Tom,  no  one's  been  so  good  to  me  as  you've 
been.  Perhaps  I  don't  understand  things  as  you 
would  like  me  to  understand  'em.  But  I  can't 
'dp  it.  Sir." 

Mr.  Merrywhistle  rose  to  go.  He  took  out  his 
purse,  and  was  about  to  offer  Blade-o'-Grass  mon- 
ey, when  she  said,  in  an  imploring  tone : 

"  No,  Sir,  not  to-night ;  it'll  do  me  more  good, 
if  you  don't  give  me  nothin'  to-night.  I  shall  be 
Sony  to  myself  afterward,  if  I  take  it.  And  don't 
believe,  Sir,  that  I  ain't  grateful !  Don't  believe 
it!" 

"  I  won't,  my  poor  girl,"  said  Mr.  Merrywhis- 
tle, huskily,  putting  his  purse  in  his  pocket.  "  I 
am  sorry  for  all  this.  But,  at  all  events,  you  can 
promise  me  that  if  you  want  a  friend,  you'll  come 
to  me.     You  know  where  I  live." 

"Yes,  Sir;  and  I'll  promise  you.  When  I 
don't  know  which  way  to  turn,  I'll  come  to 
you." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  kissed  it,  and 
went  down  stairs  with  him  with  the  candle,  to 
show  him  the  way.  He  walked  home  with  a 
very  heavy  feeling  at  his  heart.  "  There's  some- 
thing wrong  somewhere,"  was  his  refrain.  He 
was  conscious  that  a  great  social  problem  was 
before  him,  but  he  could  find  no  solution  for  it. 
Indeed,  it  could  not  be  expected  of  him.  He  was 
ready  enough  (too  ready,  many  said)  with  his  six- 
pences and  shillings  when  his  heart  was  stirred, 
but  he  was  not  a  politician. 

When  Blade-o'-Grass  re-entered  her  cheerless 
room,  she  set  the  candle  on  the  table  and  began 
to  cry.  Her  heart  was  very  sore,  and  she  was 
deeply  moved  at  Mr.  Merrywhistle's  goodness. 
She  started  to  her  feet,  however,  when  she  heard 
the  sounds  of  a  well-known  step  on  the  stairs. 
Wiping  her  eyes  hastily,  she  hurried  into  the 
passage  with  the  candle.  Tom  Beadle  smiled  as 
he  saw  the  light.  He  was  a  blackguard  and  a 
thief,  but  he  loved  Blade-o'-Grass. 

"  I've  got  some  trotters,  old  gal,"  he  said,  when 
they  were  in  their  room,  ' '  and  'arf  a  pint  o'  gin. 
Wliy,  I'm  blessed  if  you  'aven't  been  turain'  on 
the  water-works  agin!" 

Her  eyes  glistened  at  the  sight  of  the  food. 

"Look  'ere,  old  woman,"  said  Tom  Beadle, 
with  his  arm  round  her  waist.  "'Ere's  a  slice  o' 
luck,  eh  ?"  And  he  took  out  a  purse  and  emp- 
tied it  on  the  table.  A  half-sovereign  and  about 
a  dozen  shillings  rolled  out.     She  handled  the 


coins  eagerly,  but  she  did  not  ask  him  how  he 
came  by  them. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Tom  Beadle  and  Blade-o'- 
Grass,  having  finished  their  supper,  were  sitting 
before  the  fire,  on  which  the  girl  had  thrown  the 
last  shovelful  of  coals.  In  the  earlier  part  of  the 
night  she  had  been  sparing  of  them ;  but  when 
Tom  came  home  rich,  she  made  a  bright  blaze, 
and  enjoyed  the  comforting  warmth.  Tom  sat 
on  the  only  chair,  and  she  on  the  ground,  with 
her  arm  thrown  over  his  knee.  She  was  happy 
and  comfortable,  having  had  a  good  supper,  and 
seeing  the  certainty  of  being  able  to  buy  food  for 
many  days  to  come.  Then  she  told  him  of  Mr. 
Merrywhistle's  visit,  but  did  not  succeed  in  rais- 
ing in  him  any  grateful  feeling.  All  that  he  saw 
was  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Merrywhistle 
to  take  Blade-o'-Grass  away  from  him,  and  he 
was  proportionately  grateful  to  that  gentleman. 

"I'd  'ave  punched  'is  'ead,  if  I'd  been  'ere," 
was  Tom's  commentary. 

"No,  Tom,  you  wouldn't, "said  Blade-o'-Grass, 
earnestly.  "He  only  come  to  tiy  to  do  me  some 
good,  and  he's  give  me  money  lots  o'  times. " 

"He  didn't  give  you  any  to-night,"  grumbled 
Tom. 

"He  wanted  to,  but  I  wouldn't  take  it;  I 
couldn't  take  it." 

"Blessed  if  I  don't  think  you're  growin'  soft, 
old  woman !     Wouldn't  take  his  tin !" 

"Somethin'  come  over  me,  Tom;  I  don't 
know  what.  But  iie'll  make  it  up  to  me  another 
time." 

There  was  a  soft  dreaminess  in  her  tone,  as 
she  lay  looking  into  the  fire  with  her  head  upon 
Tom's  knee,  that  disarmed  him.  He  took  a  good 
drink  of  gin-and-water,  and  caressed  her  face  with 
his  hand.  Just  then  the  candle  went  out.  Blade- 
o'-Grass  placed  her  warm  cheek  upon  Tom's  hand. 
They  sat  so  in  silence  for  some  time.  Tender 
fancies  were  in  the  fire  even  for  Blade-o'-Grass. 
As  she  gazed  she  smiled  happily,  as  she  had  done 
in  her  sleep.  What  did  she  see  there?  Good 
God !  A  baby's  face !  So  like  herself,  yet  so 
much  brighter,  purer,  that  thrills  of  ineffable  hap- 
piness and  exquisite  pain  quivered  through  her. 
Eyes  that  looked  at  hers  in  wonder;  laughing 
mouth  waiting  to  be  kissed.  It  raised  its  little 
hands  to  her,  and  held  out  its  pretty  arms ;  and 
she  made  a  yearning  movement  toward  it,  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  Tom's  fingers,  and  kissed  them 
softly,  again  and  again,  while  the  tears  ran  down 
her  face. 

"Oh,  Tom ! "  she  whispered,  ' '  'ow  I  love  you ! " 

What  a  rock  for  her  to  lean  upon !  What  a 
harbor  for  her  to  take  shelter  in ! 


BLADE.  0'- GRASS. 


She  fell  into  a  doze  presently,  and  woke  in  ter- 
ror. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  gal?"  asked  Tom, 
himself  nodding. 

And  then  she  gasped,  between  her  sobs,  that 
she  dreamed  it  was  bom  with  a  tiger  in  its  in- 
side! 

Hark !  What  was  that  ?  HeaAy  steps  com- 
ing up  stairs.  No  shuffling ;  measured,  slow,  and 
certain,  as  though  they  were  bullets  being  lifted 
from  stair  to  stair.  Tom  started  to  his  feet. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  sounds. 

"  Give  me  the  money,  Bladergrass ;  give  me 
the  money,  or  you  might  get  into  trouble  too!" 
He  tore  the  money  out  of  her  pocket ;  when  he 
came  in  he  had  given  it  to  her  to  keep  house  with. 
Then  he  cried,  ' '  The  purse !  Where's  the  purse  ? 
Throw  it  out  on  the  tiles — put  it  on  the  fire !" 

"I  'aven't  got  it,  Tom,"  answered  Blade-o'- 
Grass,  hurriedly,  her  knees  knocking  together  with 
fright.     "What's  up?" 

"The  peelers !  Don't  you  'ear  'em  ?"  Curse 
the  light!  why  did.  it  go  out?  If  they  see  the 
purse,  I'm  done  for!" 

They  groped  about  in  the  dark,  but  could  not 
find  it.  For  a  moment  the  steps  halted  outside 
the  door.  Then  it  opened,  and  the  strong  light 
fiom  the  policemen's  bull's-eye  lamps  was  thrown 
upon  the  crouching  forms  of  Tom  Beadle  and 
Blade-o'-Grass. 

"You're  up  late,  Tom,"  said  one  of  the  police- 
men.    . 

"Yes,"  said  Tom,  doggedly,  and  with  a  pale 
face ;   "I  was  jist  goin'  to  bed." 

The  policeman  nodded  carelessly,  and  kept  his 
eye  upon  Tom,  while  his  comrade  searched  about 
tiie  room. 

"Got  any  money,  Tom ?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"Come,  come;  take  it  easy,  my  lad.  You 
haven't  been  long  out,  you  know." 

"And  what  o'  that?"  exclaimed  Tom,  begin- 
ning to  gather  courage,  for  the  policeman's  search 
was  almost  at  an  end,  and  nothing  was  found. 
"  You  can't  take  me  up  for  not  bein'  long  out." 

"But  wfi  can  for  this,"  said  the  second  police- 
man, lifting  a  purse  from  the  mantel-shelf.  Is 
this  yours.  Sir  ?" 

A  man,  who  had  been  lingering  by  the  door, 
came  forward  and  looked  at  the  purse  by  the 
light  of  the  lamp.     "  Yes,  it  is  mine." 

"And  is  this  the  party?" — throwing  the  light 
full  upon  Tom  Beadle's  face.  He  bore  it  bold- 
ly ;  he  knew  well  enough  that  the  game  was  up. 

"I  can't  say  ;  the  purse  was  snatched  out  of 


63 

see  the  face  of 


((w 

my  hand  suddenly,  an 
the  thief.     I  followed  him" 
him  run  down  this  alley 

"And  a  nice  hunt  we've  had 
en  houses,  and  only  came  to  the  right  one  at  last. 
How  much  was  in  the  purse,  Sir,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Twenty-three  shillings — alialf-sovereign,  and 
the  rest  in  silver." 

"Now,  Tom,  turn  out  your  pockets." 

Tom  did  so  without  hesitation.  A  half-sover- 
eign and  twelve  shillings  were  placed  on  the  ta- 
ble. 

"Just  the  money,  with  a  shilling  short.  What 
have  you  been  having  for  supper,  Tom  ?" 

"Trotters." 

" Ay ;  and  what  was  in  the  bottle?'* 

"Gin,  of  course." 

"  Trotters,  fourpence ;  gin,  eightpence.  That's 
how  the  other  shilling's  gone,  Sir.  Come  along, 
Tom  ;  this'll  be  a  longer  job  than  the  last." 

As  Tom  nodded  sullenly,  Blade-o'-Grass,  who 
had  listened  to  the  conversation  with  a  face  like 
the  face  of  death,  sank  to  the  ground  in  a  swoon. 
The  policemen's  hands  were  on  Tom,  and  he 
struggled  to  get  from  them. 

"Come,  come,  my  lad,"  said  one,  shaking  liim 
rouglily;  "that's  no  good,  you  know.  Best  go 
quietly." 

"I  want  to  go  quietly,"  cried  Tom,  with  a 
great  swelling  in  his  throat  that  almost  choked 
his  words;  "but  don't  you  see  she's  fainted? 
Let  me  go  to  her  for  a  minute.  I  hope  I  may 
drop  down  dead  if  I  try  to  escape !" 

They  loosened  their  hold,  and  he  knelt  by 
Blade-o'-Grass,  and  sprinkled  her  face  with  water. 
She  opened  her  eyes,  and  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck. 

"Oh,  Tom!"  she  cried;  "I  thought- 
thought—" 

"Now,  my  girl,"  said  the  policeman,  raising 
her  to  her  feet  in  a  not  unkindly  manner;  "it's 
no  use  making  a  bother.  Tom's  got  to  go,  you 
know.     It  isn't  his  first  job." 

' '  Good-by,  old  gal, "  said  Tom,  tenderly ;  ' '  they 
can't  prove  any  thin'.  They  can't  lag  me  for 
pickin'  up  a  empty  purse  in  the  street ;  and  as 
for  the  money,  you  know  'ow  long  I've  'ad  that, 
don't  you  ?" 

She  nodded  vacantly. 

"That's  well  trumped-up,  Tom,"  said  the  po- 
liceman ;   "but  I  don't  think  it'll  wash." 

Tom  kissed  Blade-o'-Grass,  and  marched  out 
with  his  captors.  When  their  steps  had  died 
away,  Blade-o'-Grass  shivered,  and  sank  down 
before  the  fire,  but  saw  no  pictures  in  it  now  to 
bring  happy  smiles  to  her  face. 


64 


BLADE -O'-GEASS. 


HELP   THE    POOR. 

Merry  peals  of  bells  herald  the  advent  of  a 
bright  and  happy  day.  Care  is  sent  to  the  right- 
about by  those  upon  whom  it  does  not  press  too 
heavily;  and  strangers,  as  they  pass  each  other 
in  the  streets,  are  occasionally  seen  to  smile  ami- 
ably and  cheerfully — a  circumstance  sufficiently 
rare  in  anxious,  suspicious  London  to  be  recorded 
and  made  a  note  of.  But  the  great  city  would 
be  filled  with  churls  indeed  if,  on  one  day  during 
the  year,  the  heart  was  not  allowed  to  have  free 
play.  The  atmosphere  is  brisk  and  clear,  and 
the  sun  shines  through  a  white  and  frosty  sky. 
Although  the  glories  of  spring  and  summer  are 
slumbering  in  the  earth,  nature  is  at  its  best; 
and,  best  thing  of  all  to  be  able  to  say,  human 
nature  is  more  at  its  best  than  at  any  other  time 
of  the  year.  The  houses  are  sweet  and  fresh, 
and  smiles  are  on  the  faces  and  in  the  hearts  of 
the  dwellers  therein.  Men  shake  hands  more 
heartily  than  is  their  usual  custom,  and  voices 
have  a  merry  ring  in  them,  which  it  does  one 
good  to  hear.  It  is  an  absolute  fact  that  many 
men  and  women  to-day  present  themselves  to 
each  other  unmasked.  Natural  kindliness  is  in 
the  enjoyment  of  a  pretty  fair  monopoly,  and 
charity  and  good-will  are  preached  in  all  the 
churches.  One  minister  ends  an  eloquent  exor- 
dium with  "God  help  the  poor  I"  and  the  major- 
ity of  his  congregation  whisper  devoutly,  "Be  it 
so!" — otherwise,  *'Amen!" 

In  the  church  where  this  is  said  are  certain 
friends  of  ours  whom,  I  hope,  we  have  grown  to 
respect;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Silver  with  their  flock, 
and  Robert  Truefit  with  his.  Mr.  Blenywhistle 
has  brought  Robert  Truefit  and  the  Silvers  to- 
gether, to  their  mutual  satisfaction  ;  and  Robert 
has  agreed  to  spend  Christmas-day  in  Buttercup 
Square  with  his  family  —  wife  and  four  young 
ones.  Thus  it  is  that  they  are  all  in  church  to- 
gether. They  make  a  large  party — fourteen  in 
all,  for  Mr.  Merrywhistle  is  with  them — and  there 
is  not  a  sad  heart  among  them. 

"If  I  had  been  the  minister  preaching,"  says 
Robert  Truefit  to  Mrs.  Silver,  as  they  come  out 
of  church,  "I  should  not  have  ended  my  sermon 
with  *  God  help  the  poor !'  " 

"With  what,  then?" 

"With  '  Man,  help  the  poor !' "  answered  Rob- 
ert Truefit,  gi-avely. 

Here  Charley  and  Ruth  come  forward  with  a 
petition.  They  want  permission  to  take  a  walk 
by  themselves ;  they  will  be  home  within  an  hour. 

"Very  well,  my  dears,"  says  Mrs.  Silver; 
"don't  be  longer,  if  you  can  help  it." 

It  is  Ruth  who  has  suggested  the  walk,  and 


j  slie  has  a  purpose  in  view  which  Charley  does  not 
know  of  as  yet.  But  Charley  is  happy  enough 
j  in  his  ignorance ;  a  walk  on  such  a  day  with  his 
heart's  best  treasure  by  his  side  is  heaven  to  him. 
He  is  inclined  to  walk  eastward,  where  glimpses 
of  the  country  may  be  seen ;  but  she  says,  "  No, 
Charley,  please ;  you  must  come  my  way."  Per- 
fectly contented  is  he  to  go  her  way,  and  they 
walk  toward  the  City. 

"  You  remember  the  day  we  went  to  the  Ex- 
hibition, Charley  ?" 

What  a  question  to  ask  him !  As  if  it  has  not 
been  in  his  thoughts  ever  since,  as  if  they  have 
not  talked  of  it,  and  lingered  lovingly  over  the 
smallest  incidents,  dozens  and  dozens  of  times ! 
But  he  answers  simply,  "Yes,  Ruth." 

"And  what  occurred  when  we  came  back, 
Charley?" 

"The  poor  girl  do  you  mean,  Ruth ?" 

"Yes,  the  poor  girl — so  much  like  me!" 

"I  remember." 

"I  have  never  forgotten  her,  Charley  dear !  I 
want  to  pass  by  the  spot  where  we  met  her,  and 
if  I  see  her,  I  want  to  give  her  something.  I 
should  dearly  like  to  do  so  to-day.  Do  you  re- 
member, Charley? — when  we  saw  her,  she  had 
not  a  bit  of  bread  in  the  cupboard.  Perhaps  she 
has  none  to-day." 

"Take  my  purse,  Ruth,  and  let  us  share  to- 
gether." 

"I  shall  tell  her,  Charley,  that  it  is  half  from 
you." 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

But  though  they  walk  past  the  spot,  and,  re- 
tracing their  steps,  walk  past  it  again  and  again, 
and  although  Ruth  looks  wistfully  about  hei*,  she 
sees  nothing  of  Blade-o'-Grass.  They  walk 
homeward,  Charley  very  thoughtful,  Ruth  very 
sad. 

"Come,  Ruth,"  says  Charley,  presently,  "we 
must  not  be  unhappy  to-day.  Let  us  hope  that 
the  poor  girl  is  provided  for ;  indeed,  it  is  most 
reasonable  to  believe  so." 

"I  hope  so,  Charley,  with  all  my  heart." 

"What  you  hope  with  all  your  heart,  dear 
Ruth,  is  sure  to  be  good  and  true.  Is  there  any 
thing  else  you  hope  with  all  your  heart  ?" 

There  is  a  tender  significance  in  his  tone,  and 
she  glances  at  him  shyly  and  modestly,  but  does 
not  answer. 

"  You  can  make  this  happy  day  even  happier 
than  it  is,  Ruth ;  you  can  make  it  the  happiest 
remembrance  of  my  life  if  you  will  say  Yes  to 
something ! " 

Her  voice  trembles  slightly  as  she  asks^  "To 
what,  Charley  ?" 

"  Let  me  tell  our  dear  parents  how  I  love  you. 


BLADE-O'- GRASS. 


65 


Let  me  ask  them  to  give  you  to  me.  Is  it  Yes, 
Ruth  dear  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Chailcy."  But  so  sof:ly,  so  tender- 
ly whispered,  that  only  ears  attuned  as  his  were 
could  have  heard  tlie  words. 

Presently, 

"And  do  you  love  me  with  all  your  heart, 
Ruth  r 

"With  all  my  heart,  Charley." 

Oh,  happiest  of  happy  days !  Ring  out,  sweet 
bells!  A  tenderer  music  is  in  your  notes  than 
they  have  ever  yet  been  charged  with ! 

It  is  twilight,  and  all  the  elderly  people  are  in 
the  parlor  in  Buttercup  Square.  The  children 
are  in  another  room,  engaged  in  mysterious  prep- 
aration. 

"I  think  we  shall  have  snow  soon," says  Mr. 
Merrywhistle. 

"I'm  glad  of  it, "says  Robert  Trucfit.  "Some- 
thing seems  to  me  wanting  in  Chi  i- 1  mas  when 
there  is  no  snow.  When  it  snows,  the  atmos- 
phere between  heaven  and  earth  is  bridged  by  the 
purity  of  the  happy  time." 

Mrs.  Silver  is  pleased  by  the  remark  ;  the  fire- 
light's soft  glow  is  on  her  face.  Charley  enters, 
and  bends  over  her  chair. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  he  whispers. 

She  knows  in  an  instant,  by  the  tremor  in  his 
voice,  what  he  is  about  to  say.  She  draws  him  to 
her,  so  that  the  fire-light  falls  on  his  face  as  well 
as  on  hers. 

"Is  it  about  Ruth?"  she  asks,  softly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  answers,  in  a  tone  of  eager 
wonder.     "  How  did  you  know?" 

She  smiles  sweetly  on  him. 

"I  have  known  it  for  a  long  tfane,  Charley. 
Have  you  spoken  to  her?" 

"Yes ;  and  this  is  the  happiest  day  I  have  ever 
known.  Oh,  mother,  she  loves  me !  She  gave 
me  permission  to  ask  you  for  her." 

Mrs.  Silver  calls  her  husband  to  her  side. 

"Charley  has  come  to  ask  for  Ruth,  my  dear." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.     Where  is  Ruth  ?" 

"  I  will  bring  her,"  says  Charley,  trembling 
with  happiness. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you,  my  dear?"  Mrs.  Silver 
asks  of  her  husband. 

"It  is  a  happy  Christmas,  indeed,"  he  an- 
swers. 

Ruth  is  glad  that  it  is  drnk  when  she  enters  the 
room.     Mrs.  Silver  folds  the  girl  in  her  arms. 

"  My  darling  child !  And  this  wonderful  news 
is  really  true  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dearest  mother,"  kissing  Mrs.  Sil- 
ver's neck,  and  crying. 

"What  are  you  people  conspiring  together 
E 


about?"  asks  Mr.  MenjAvhistle,  from  the  win- 
dow. 

"Come  here,  and  join  the  conspirators," says 
Mre.  Silver.  "  Our  plots  will  fail  without  your 
assistance  and  consent." 

Mr.  Merrjwhistle  joins  the  party  by  the  fire, 
and  Robert  Truefit  steals  quietly  out  of  the  room. 
"  It  is  eighteen  years  this  Christmas,"  says  Mrs. 
Silver,  "  since  Ruth  was  given  to  us.  She  has 
been  a  comfort  and  a  blessing  to  us,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  be,  I  am  sure."  Ruth  sinks  on  her 
knees,  and  hides  her  face  in  Mrs.  Silver's  lap. 
This  true  woman  lays  her  hand  on  Ruth's  head, 
and  continues :  "  It  is  time  that  Ruth  should 
know  who  is  her  real  benefactor." 

"Nay,  my  dear  madam,"  expostulates  Mr. 
Merrywhistle,  blushing  like  a  girl. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  says  Mrs.  Silver,  "  it  is  nec- 
essary. A  great  change  will  soon  take  place  in 
Ruth's  lii>,  and  jour  sani\'cn  must  be  given. — 
Ruth,  my  dear,  look  up.  EcTore  \ou  were  bom, 
this  friend — whom  we  all  Jove  ard  honor — came 
to  me  avA  asl;ed  to  be  o^'ovved  to  contribute  out 
of  his  means  toward  the  support  of  our  next  child. 
You  can  understand  with  what  joy  his  offer  was 
accepted.  Shortly  aftenvard,  my  dear — eighteen 
years  ago  this  day — ^j-ou  came  to  us,  and  com- 
pleted our  happy  circle.  You  see  before  yon 
your  benefactor — your  father — to  whom  you  owe 
j  every  thing  ;  for  all  the  expense  of  your  training 
and  education  has  been  home  by  him.  It  is 
right  that  you  and  Charley  should  know  this. 
And,  Charley,  as  but  for  this  our  dearest  friend 
the  happiness  which  has  fallen  upon  you  could 
not  have  been  yours,  it  is  of  him  you  must  ask  for 
Ruth." 

"  Sir — "  says  Charley,  advancing  toward  Mr. 
Merrywhistle. 

"Not  another  word,"  cries  Mr.  Meny-whistle, 
with  Ruth  in  his  arms;  "not  another  word 
about  me,  or  I'll  go  and  spend  my  Christmas-ere 
elsewhere.  If,  as  Mrs.  Silver  says,  my  consent 
is  necessary,  I  give  you  Ruth  with  all  my  heart." 
— He  kisses  Ruth,  and  says:  "A  happy  future 
is  before  you,  children.  No  need  for  me  to  tell 
you  where  your  chief  love  and  duty  lie — no  need 
for  me  to  remind  you  to  whose  parental  care  and 
good  example  you  owe  all  your  happiness.  To 
me,  an  old  man,  without  kith  or  kin,  their  friend- 
ship and  love  have  been  priceless;  they  have 
brightened  my  life.  It  comes  upon  me  now  to 
say,  my  dear  girl  and  boy,  that  once— ah,  how- 
many  years  ago! — such  a  prize  as  the  love  which 
animates  you  seemed  to  be  within  my  reach ;  but 
it  slipped  from  me,  and  I  am  an  old  man  now, 
waiting  to  hear  my  name  called.  Cling  to  your 
love,  my  dears ;  keep  it  in  your  hearts  as  a  sacred 


66 


BLADE -0'- GRASS. 


thing  ;  let  it  show  itself  daily  in  your  actions  to- 
ward each  other:  it  will  sweeten  your  winter 
when  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  and  every  thing 
shall  he  as  bright  and  fresh  to  you  then  as  in  this 
your  spring-time,  when  all  the  future  before  you 
seems  carpeted  with  flowers.  Ruth,  ray  child, 
God  bless  you !  Charley,  I  am  proud  of  you ! 
Let  your  aim  be  to  live  a  good  life." 

Mrs.  Silver  kisses  the  good  old  man,  and  they 
at  round  the  fire  undisturbed ;  for  it  appears  to 
be  understood  in  the  house  that  the  parlor  must 
not  be  invaded  until  permission  is  given.  It  is 
settled  that  Cliarley  and  Ruth  shall  wait  for 
twelve  months  ;  that  Charley  shall  be  very  sav- 
ing ;  that  Ruth  shall  leave  her  situation  and 
keep  house  for  the  family,  so  that  she  shall  enter 
her  own  home  competent  to  fulfill  the  duties  of 
a  wife.  But.  indeed,  this  last  clause  is  scarcely 
necessary ;  for  all  Mrs.  Silver's  girls  have  been 
carefully  instructed  in  those  domestic  duties, 
without  a  knowledge  of  which  no  woman  can  be 
a  proper  helpmate  to  the  man  to  whom  she  gives 
her  love. 

The  shadows  thicken,  and  the  snow  begins  to 
fall.  There  is  peace  without,  and  love  within. 
Mrs.  Silver,  as  she  watches  the  soft  snow-flakes, 
thinks  that  it  will  be  just  such  a  night  as  that  on 
which,  eighteen  years  ago,  she  and  her  husband 
brought  Ruth  home  from  Stoney  Alley.  She  re- 
calls every  circumstance  of  her  interview  with  the 
landlady,  and  hears  again  the  pitiful  story  of  the 
motherless  babe.  Then  she  looks  do^vn  upon 
the  pure,  happy  face  of  Ruth,  and  her  heart  is 
filled  with  gratitude  to  God. 

And  Ruth's  twin-sister,  Blade-o'-Grass  ? 

She  was  sitting  in  the  same  miserable  attic 
from  which  Tom  Beadle  was  taken  to  prison. 
He  was  not  in  prison  now,  having  escaped  just 
punishment  by  (for  him)  a  lucky  chance.  When 
Tom  was  brought  before  the  magistrate,  lie  told 
his  tnimped-up  story  glibly :  he  had  picked  up 
the  empty  purse  in  the  street,  and  the  money  was 
the  result  of  his  own  earnings.  "When  asked 
how  he  had  earned  it,  he  declined  to  say;  and 
he  advanced  an  artful  argument.  The  policeman 
had  reckoned  up  the  money  which  the  man  who 
had  lost  the  purse  said  it  contained — twenty-tliree 
shiUings.  Twenty-two  shillings  were  found  in 
Tom's  pocket,  and  the  other  shilling  was  spent, 
according  to  ths  policeman's  version,  in  trotters 
and  gin.  Not  another  penny,  -n  addition  to  the 
twenty-two  shillings,  was  discovei'ed  in  the  room. 
Now,  said  Tom,  it  wasn't  likely  that  he  would  be 
without  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  and  the  fact  that 
"Vj  had  just  the  sum  the  purse  had  contained  was 
simply  a  cohicidence.     He  argued  that  it  would 


be  much  clearer  against  him  if  a  few  coppers 
more  than  the  actual  money  lost  had  been  found. 
Of  course  this  defense  was  received  with  derision 
by  the  police,  and  with  discredit  by  the  magis- 
trate. But  it  happened  that  the  prosecutor  was 
too  unwell  to  attend  on  the  morning  that  Tom 
made  his  appearance  in  the  police  court,  and  he 
was  remanded  for  a  week.  Before  the  week 
passed  by  the  prosecutor  died,  and  Tom  was  set 
free.  Blade-o'-Grass  was  overjoyed ;  it  was  like 
a  reprieve  from  death  to  her.  But  the  police 
were  angry  at  Tom's  escape,  and  kept  so  sharp  a 
watch  on  him  that  he  found  it  "nore  than  ever 
difficult  to  live.  I  am  not  pleading,  Tom's  cause, 
nor  bespeaking  compassion  for  him  I  am  sim- 
ply relating  certain  facts  in  connection  with  him. 
When  Christmas  came,  things  were  at  their  very 
worst.  They  had  no  Christmas  dinner,  and  Tom 
was  prowling  about  in  search  of  prey. 

On  the  night  before  Christmas  Blade-o'-Grass 
listened  to  the  merry  bells  with  somewhat  of  bit- 
terness in  her  soul.  .  Every  thing  about  her  was 
so  dreary,  the  prospect  of  obtaining  food  was 
so  faint,  that  the  sound  of  the  bells  came  to  her 
ears  mockingly.  What  she  would  have  done 
but  for  her  one  comfort  and  joy,  it  is  difficult  to 
say. 

Her  one  comfort  and  joy.  Yes,  she  had  a  baby 
now,  as  pretty  a  little  thing  as  ever  was  seen. 
All  her  thought,  all  her  anxiety  was  for  her 
child.  Blade-o'-Grass  possessed  the  same  ten- 
derness of  nature  that  had  been  so  developed  in 
Ruth  as  to  make  her  a  pride  of  womanhood. 
How  proud  Bkde-o'-Grass  was  of  her  baby! 
How  she  wondered,  and  cried,  and  laughed  over 
it !  As  she  uncovered  its  pretty  dimpled  face, 
and  gazed  at  it  in  worship,  all  the  bitterness  of 
her  soul  at  the  merry  sound  of  the  bells  faded 
away,  and  for  a  little  while  she  was  happy.  She 
talked  to  the  babe,  and,  bidding  it  listen  to  the 
bells,  imitated  the  glad  sound  with  her  voice,  un- 
til the  child's  face  was  rippled  with  smiles.  But 
the  hard  realities  of  her  position  were  too  press- 
{  ing  for  her  to  be  able  to  forget  them  for  more  than 
a  few  minutes,     Tom  had  not  been  home  since 


the  morning,  and  she  had  had  but  little  food  dur- 
ing the  day.  .  Not  for  herself  did  she  care  ;  but 
her  baby  must  be  fed.  If  she  did  not  eat  and 
drink,  how  could .  she  give  milk  to  her  child  ? 
"  I'll  go  and  arks  Jimmy  Wirtue  for  somethin'/' 
she  thought;  and,  so  that  her  appeal  to  the  old 
man  might  be  fortunate,  she  cunningly  took  her 
baby  out  with  her.  Jimmy  was  playing  All- 
Fours  with  Jack,  who,  having  come  into  another 
fortune,  was  dissipating  it  recklessly,  as  usual,  for 
the  benefit  of  his  remorseless  foe. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?    What's  that  bundle  in 


BLADE- O- GRASS. 


67 


your  arms  ?"  growled  Jimmy,  as  Blade-o'-Grass 
peeped  into  his  parlor. 

"It's  my  baby,"  said  Blade-o'-Grass;  "I've 
come  to  show  it  to  you." 

"And  what  business  have  you  with  a  baby?" 
exclaimed  Jimmy,  in  an  excited  manner.  "Ain't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Take  it  away ;  I  don't 
want  any  babies  'ere." 


"it's  now  nigh  on  eighteen  year  ago  since  Mrs. 
Manning — you  remember  Mrs.  Manning?" 

"Oh  yes, "sighed  Blade-o'-Grass. 

"  It's  now  nigh  on  eighteen  year  ago  since  she 
come  round  a-beggin'  for  you  ;  and  now  you  come 
round  a-beggin'  for  your  babby." 

"I  can't  'elp  it,"  said  Blade-o'-Grass;  "don't 
speak  to  me  unkindly ;  I  am  weak  and  'ungiy.** 


UES8IN0   HER   UAUE  TO  UEB  UOBOM,  SUE   WAITED.' 


But  Blade-o'-Grass  pleaded  her  cause  so  meek- 
ly and  patiently,  and  with  so  much  feeling,  that 
Jimmy  was  bound  to  listen  and  sympathize,  hard 
as  he  was. 

"  Lookee  *ere,"ho  said  harshly,  holding  up  his 
finger,  as  she  stood  looking  at  hira  entreatingly : 


"Why,  you  was  only  a  babby  yourself  then — 
what's  the  matter?" 

Blade-o"-Grass  was  swaying  fonvard,  and  would 
have  fallen  if  he  had  not  caught  her.  His  tone 
was  so  hai-sh,  that  the  poor  girl's  heart  was  fiiint- 
ing  within  her  at  the  prospect  of  being  sent  awaj 


C8 


BLADE -O'- GRASS. 


empty-handed.  Jimmy  assisted  her  into  his  chair ; 
and  without  considering  that  he  was  about  to  up- 
set Jack,  who  was  sitting  on  the  box,  opened  it, 
and  produced  a  bottle  of  spirits.  He  gave  her 
some  in  a  cup,  and  she  revived.  Then,  grum- 
bhngly,  he  took  a  sixpence  out  of  a  dirty  bag, 
and  gave  it  to  her,  saying, 

"There!  And  don't  you  come  botheriu'  me 
agin!" 

How  grateful  she  was !  She  made  him  kiss 
baby,  and  left  him  with  that  soft  touch  upon  his 
lips.  He  stood  still  for  a  few  moments  with  his 
fingers  to  his  lips,  wondering  somewhat ;  but  he 
recovered  himself  very  soon,  and,  glaring  at  Jack, 
took  swift  revenge  in  All-Fours  for  his  softness 
of  heart,  and  ruined  that  shadowy  creation  for 
,Jhe  hundredth  time. 

When -Blade-o'-Grass  quitted  Jimmy's  shop, 
she  felt  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  sing,  she 
was  so  bhthe  and  happy.  She  spent  the  whole 
sixpence,  and  treated  herself  to  half  a  pint  of 
stout,  "This  is  for  you,  pet!"  she  said  to  her 
baby,  as  she  drank.  She  drank  only  lialf  of 
it ;  the  other  half  she  saved  for  Tom.  But  al- 
though she  waited  up,  and  listened  to  the  bells — 
gratefully  now  —  until  long  past  midnight,  Tom 
did  not  come  home.  And  when  she  rose  on 
Christmas  moraing,  he  was  still  absent.  She 
wandered  out  to  look  for  him,  but  could  not  find 
him ;  and  then  hurried  back,  hoping  that  he  might 
have  come  in  her  absence.  As  the  day  wore  on, 
she  grew  more  and  more  anxious,  and  tormented 
herself  with  fears  and  fancies  as  to  what  could 
have  happened  to  him.  So  she  passed  her  Christ- 
mas-day. In  the  afternoon  she  fell  asleep,  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms.  At  first  she  dreamed  of 
all  kinds  of  terrors,  and  lived  over  again,  in  her 
dreams,  many  of  the  miseries  of  her  past  life; 
but  after  a  time  her  sleep  became  more  peaceful, 
and  her  mind  wandered  back  to  the  time  when, 
a  child  of  three  years  of  age,  she  sat  on  the  stones 
in  the  dirty  yard,  looking  in  silent  deliglit  at  the 
Blades  of  Grass  springing  from  the  ground. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  dark.     She  went  to 


the  window,  shivering ;  it  was  snowing  fast.  All 
the  food  was  gone,  and  she  was  hungry  again. 
What  should  she  do  ?  Suddenly  a  terrible  fear 
smote  her.  Baby  was  very  quiet.  She  looked 
at  the  sleeping  child's  white  face  by  the  white 
light  of  the  snow,  and  placed  her  ears  to  the  pret- 
ty mouth.  Thank  God !  she  felt  the  child's  warai 
breath.  But  it  would  wake  up  presently,  and  she 
had  no  milk  to  give.  The  child's  lips  and  fingers 
were  wandering  now  to  the  mother's  bosom.  She 
could  not  stand  this  agony  of  hunger  and  dark- 
ness and  solitude  any  longer ;  she  must  go  into 
the  streets. 

Out  into  the  streets,  where  the  snow  was  falling 
heavily,  she  went.  She  looked  wistfully  about 
for  Tom,  but  saw  no  signs  of  him.  Into  the 
wider  thoroughfares  she  wandered.  How  white 
they  were !  how  pure !  how  peaceful !  A  virgin 
world  had  taken  the  place  of  the  old ;  a  new-bom 
world  seemed  to  lie  before  her,  with  its  pure  white 
page  ready  for  the  finger  of  God  to  write  upon. 
She  wandered  on  and  on,  until  she  came  to  a 
square.  She  knew  it  immediately — Buttercup 
Square.  Why,  here  it  was  that  Mr.  Merrywhis- 
tle  lived,  and  he  had  made  her  promise  that  she 
would  come  to  him  when  she  wanted  a  friend. 
"When  I  don't  know  which  way  to  turn,  I'll 
come  to  you,"  she  had  said.  Well,  she  didn't 
know  which  way  to  turn.  She  walked  slowly 
toward  a  house,  through  the  shutters  of  Mhich 
she  could  see  pleasant  gleams  of  light.  It  was 
Mrs.  Silver's  house,  and  she  paused- before  it,  and 
thought  to  herself,  "I'll  wait  'ere  till  I  see  'im." 
And  so,  pressing  her  babe  to  her  bosom,  she  wait- 
ed, and  listened  to  the  music  of  happy  voices  that 
floated  from  the  house  into  the  peaceful  square. 
Did  any  heavenly-directed  influence  impel  her 
steps  hitherward?  And  what  shall  follow  for 
poor  Blade-o'-Grass  ?  I  do  not  know,  for  this 
is  Christmas,  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-one, 
and  I  can  not  see  into  the  future ;  but  as  I  pre- 
pare to  lay  down  my  pen,  I  seem  to  hear  the 
words  that  Robert  Truefit  uttered  this  morning — 
"Man,  help  the  poor!" 


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